Private  Library  of 
A,  E.  KIRK 

Collector    of 

Rare  and  Antiquarian  Books 

Long  Beach,  California 


J- 


Nereiliadmr  si^t  aj>p    \ 
None  other  5  0viii5  so  r'uct 


, He  would  stiolte 

The  >«ad  of  modest  and  tn  jenuous  wona 
That  l>l\is^*d  at  its  owrt  piaise. 


THE 


PREMIUM; 

A  PRESENT  FOR  ALL  SEASONS; 


CO:«SISTING   OF 

ELEGANT  SELECTIONS 

FROH 

BRITISH  AND   AMERICAN   WRITERS 

OF   THE 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


PHILADELPHIA- 
CAREY,  LEA  &  BLANCHARD. 

1836. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the 
year  1833,  by  Carey,  Lea  &  Blanchard,  in  the 
Clerk's  OfFice  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  Dis- 
trict of  Pennsylvania. 


PREFACE. 

Of  the  many  books  which  are  now  used  as 
presents  to  the  young,  there  is  a  large  proportion 
whose  contents  are  rather  of  a  light  and  frivo- 
lous character ;  and  very  few  of  which  the  com- 
position maybe  regarded  as  truly  classical.  The 
editor  of  the  Premium,  having  frequent  occasion 
to  present  books  to  those  who  are  under  his 
care,  has  learnt  that  it  is  no  easy  matter  always 
to  find  such  a  volume  as  is  exactly  suited  to  his 
purpose. 

He  deems  it  important  that  a  premium  should 
contain  solid  matter — such  as  may  be  read  fre- 
quently without  losing  its  interest — matter  which 
may  serve  to  form  the  taste,  aid  the  reader  in 
the  art  of  composition,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
furnishes  valuable  information ;  and  precepts  for 


2u73&79 


IV  PREFACE. 

the  conduct  of  life.  In  short,  that  the  volume 
may  be  fit  to  preserve  and  peruse  in  mature  life. 
If  the  production  now  oflfered  to  the  public 
shall  be  considered  as  having  in  any  good  de- 
gree maintained  this  character,  the  editor's  de- 
sign will  have  been  fully  accomplished. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Advantages  of  a  well-cultivated  Mind 1 

Nature  and  Art 5 

Flowers 6 

To  the  Evening  Wind 8 

Description  of  a  Roman  Entertainment 9 

The  Evening  Cloud 12 

Solitude ib. 

The  Tizer's  Cave 14 

Holy  Flowers 21 

How  to  become  a  Naturalist 23 

The  Homes  of  England 24 

The  Clemencv  of  Luitprand 25 

The  Torch  of  Liberty 28 

An  English  Spring  Morning 30 

Autumn 32 

Th.3  Fall  of  the  Leaf. 33 

Ode 39 

The  Pleasures  of  Botany 41 

What 's  Hallowed  Ground 44 

The  Venetian  Bridals 47 

Sonnet 51 

Mountains ib. 

Weep  not  for  the  Youthful  Dead  56 

The  Rainy  Sunday 58 

To  Nature 62 

The  Perfection  of  Nature 64 

The  Museum  of  Nature 66 

The  New  Moon 68 

Joanna  Baiilie 69 

The  Lily 72 

English  Authors 73 

A  Highland  Anecdote 74 

The  Bell  of  St.  Regis 77 

Nature's  Gift 84 

The  Beacon-Light 85 

Early  Life  of  Audubon ib. 

The  Brook...   88 

The  World  to  Come 92 

Future  Increase  of  Knowledge 93 

The  dying  Father  and  liis  Daughter 97 

V 


VI  CONTEXTS. 

Fjge 

The  Winter  Night 1,)4 

Rebellion  in  the  State  Prison 105 

The  Hurricane Ill 

Hymn  of  Nature 115 

The  Prairie Il6 

The  Snow  Flake  122 

Description  of  Niagara  Falls 124 

Song  to  the  Evening  Star 126 

The  Genius  of  Death 127 

The  Harvest  Moon 128 

Spri  ng 129 

Extract ib. 

Tlie  Spanish  Brigand 130 

Arts  and  Sciences  mutually  dependent 135 

The  Progress  of  Life 140 

Woman ib. 

The  Character  of  Oliver  Cromwell 141 

Haunt  for  a  Summer  Noon 146 

The  Landscape ib. 

A  Wood  Scene 147 

American  Deer-hunt 148 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty 151 

Extract  from  Mr.  Brougham's  Defence  of  J.  A.  Wil- 
liams, for  a  Libel  on  the  Clergy  of  Durham 152 

Right  of  Free  Discussion  asserted 154 

The    Declaration  of  Independence    compared  with 

Magna  Charta 155 

Character  of  Michael  Angelo 156 

Connecticut  River 158 

Lord  Thurlow 162 

Sicilian  Scene 164 

Morning  Twilight 165 

May  you  die  among  your  Kindred ib. 

The  Siars 166 

Crater  of  Kirauea  in  Hawaii ib. 

The  Green  Linnet 170 

The  Human  Voice ib. 

Blindness  of  Milton 174 

The  Unknown  Isles 176 

A  Mother 177 

Modesty ib. 

Authorship 178 

My  Sister 181 

Beauty  of  Flowers  and  Shells 182 

August 185 

Value  of  Classical  Learning 186 

The  ivy 188 

Lines   written    on   a  Blank   Leaf  of  La  Perouse'B 
Voyages 190 


COXTESTS.  Vll 

*,  Page 

Reception  of  Columbus  on  his  Return  to  Spain ]9-2 

The  Star 195 

Extract 196 

Death ib. 

Character  of  the  Roman  Dominion ib. 

On  seeinj,'  in  a  List  of  Music  the  "Waterloo  Waltz'.  199 

Trust  in  Providence 200 

What  then? 201 

Parental  Affection 203 

The  Chase 204 

dualities  of  a  well-regulated  Mind 208 

To  an  Infant 212 

Parallel  between  Leibnitz  and  Newton 213 

The  Lost  Darling 216 

Improxisatori 217 

Midnight  at  Corinth 220 

True  Greatness 221 

The  Grandame 222 

Ancient  Nations 224 

Titus  before  Jerusalem 225 

Uses  of  Water 226 

The  Butterfly 229 

Night ib. 

Pursuits  of  Cowper 231 

The  English  Church  Service 233 

Passage  of  the  Red  Sea 234 

Extract 236 

English  Customs ib. 

The  Sea-shell 240 

The  Sense  of  Duty 241 

Effect  of  the  Death  of  Nelson 243 

The  Plavthings 244 

To  a  Child 245 

The  Dead  Soldier 246 

Character  of  the  Puritans 248 

Stanzas 251 

Thoughts  at  Midnight 252 

Characteristics  of  Poetry 253 

The  Wounded  Eagle 256 

The  Adventure  of  the  Mason 257 

The  Dying  Girl's  Lament 2G1 

The  Illustrious  Dead 263 

Belshazzar 264 

On  Vanity 266 

The  Sabbath  Bell 270 

The  Dangers  of  a  Military  Spirit 272 

Cemeteries  and  Rites  of  Burial  in  Turkey 274 

The  Mother's  Injunction,  on  preeenting  her  Son  with 
a  Bible 2~6 


VIU  CONTEXTS. 

Pace 

History , 277 

1  see  thee  slill 282 

Beauty  and  Force  of  the  English  Language 283 

Shakspeare 285 

To  Intellectual  Beauty 28G 

The  Garden  of  Plants 288 

Character  of  Sophocles 2113 

Modern  Greece 295 

Remarks  on  Shakspeare 296 

The  Sabbath 303 

Youth  and  Age 3()5 

Marco  Bozzaris 30(5 

Battle  of  Waterloo 308 


S^fie  iDrrmium* 


ADVANTAGES  OF  A  WELL-CULTIVATED  MIND. 

It  is  not  without  reason  that  those,  who  have 
tasted  the  pleasures  afforded  by  philosophy  and 
literature,  have  lavished  upon  them  the  greatest 
eulogiuras.  The  benefits  they  produce  are  too 
many  to  enumerate,  valuable  beyond  estimation, 
and  various  as  the  scenes  of  human  life.  The 
man  who  has  a  knowledge  of  the  works  of  God, 
in  the  creation  of  the  universe,  and  his  providen- 
tial government  of  the  immense  system  of  the 
material  and  intellectual  world,  can  never  be 
without  a  copious  fund  of  the  most  agreeable 
amusement.  He  can  never  be  solitary ;  for  in 
the  most  lonely  solitude  he  is  not  destitute  of 
company  and  conversation:  his  own  ideas  are 
his  companions,  and  he  can  always  converse  with 
his  own  mind. 

How  much  soever  a  person  may  he  engaged  in 
pleasures,  or  encumbered  with  business,  he  will 
certainly  have  some  moments  to  spare  for  thought 
and  reflection.  No  one,  who  has  observed  how 
heavily  the  vacuities  of  time  hang  upon  minds 
unfurnished  with  images  and  unaccustomed  to 
think,  will  be  at  a  loss  to  make  a  just  estimate 
of  the  advaoitages  of  possessing  a  copious  stock 
of  ideas,  of  which  the  combinations  may  take  a 
multiplicity  of  forms,  and  may  be  varied  to  in- 
finity. 

Mental  occupations  are  a  pleasing  reUef  from 
bodily  exertions,  and  that  perpetual  hurry  and 
A  1 


2  THE    PREMIUM. 

wearisome  attention,  which,  in  most  of  the  em- 
ployments of  life,  must  be  given  to  objects  which 
are  no  otherwise  interesting  than  as  they  are  ne- 
cessary. The  mind  in  an  hour  of  leisure,  obtain- 
ing a  short  vacation  from  the  perplexing  cares 
of  the  world,  tinds,  in  its  own  contemplations,  b 
source  of  amusement,  of  solace  and  pleasure. 
The  tiresome  attention  that  must  be  given  to  an 
infinite  number  of  things,  which,  singly  and 
separately  taken,  are  of  little  moment,  but  col- 
lectively considered,  form  an  important  aggregate, 
requires  to  be  sometimes  relaxed  by  thoughts  and 
reflections  of  a  more  general  and  extensive  na- 
ture, and  directed  to  objects  of  which  the  exami- 
nation may  open  a  more  spacious  field  of  exercise 
to  the  mind,  give  scope  to  its  exertions,  expand 
its  ideas,  present  new  combinations,  and  exhibit 
to  the  intellectual  eye,  images  new,  various,  sub- 
lime, or  beautiful. 

The  time  of  action  will  not  always  continue. 
The  young  ought  ever  to  have  this  consideration 
present  to  their  mind,  that  they  must  grow  old, 
unless  prematurely  cut  oflf  by  sickness  or  acci- 
dent. They  ought  to  contemplate  the  certain 
approach  of  age  and  decrepitude,  and  consider 
that  all  temporal  happiness  is  of  uncertain  acqui- 
sition, mixed  with  a  variety  of  alloy,  and,  in 
whatever  degree  attained,  only  of  a  short  and 
precarious  duration.  Every  day  brings  some  dis- 
appointment, some  diminution  of  pleasure,  or 
some  frustration  of  hope ;  and  every  moment 
brings  us  nearer  to  that  period,  when  the  present 
scenes  shall  recede  from  the  view,  and  future 
prospects  cannot  be  formed. 

This  consideration  displays,  in  a  very  interest- 
ing point  of  view,  the  beneficial    effects  of  fur 


THE  vnti>ttvyt.  3 

hishing  the  mind  with*  a  stock  of  ideas  that  may 
ftrause  it  in  leisure,  accompany  it  in  solitude,  dispel 
the  gloom  of  melancholy,  lighten  the  pressure  of 
misfortune,  dissipate  the  vexations  arising  from 
baffled  projects  or  disappointed  hopes,  and  relieve 
the  tedium  of  that  season  of  life,  when  new  acqui- 
sitions can  no  more  be  made,  and  the  world  can 
no  longer  flatter  and  delude  us  with  its  illusory 
hopes  and  promises. 

When  life  begins,  like  a  distant  landscape,  gra- 
dually to  disappear,  the  mind  can  receive  no  solace 
but  from  its  own  ideas  and  reflections.  Philosophy 
and  Uterature  will  then  furnish  us  with  an  inex- 
haustible source  of  the  most  agreeable  amusements, 
as  religion  will  afford  its  substantial  consolation. 
A  well-spent  youth  is  the  only  sure  foundation 
of  a  happy  old  age  :  no  axiom  of  the  mathematics 
is  more  true,  or  more  easily  demonstrated. 

Old  age,  like  death,  comes  unexpectedly  on  the 
unthinking  and  unprepared,  although  its  approach 
be  visible,  and  its  arrival  certain.  Those  who 
have,  in  the  earlier  part  of  life,  neglected  to  furnish 
their  minds  with  ideas,  to  fortify  them  by  contem- 
plation, and  regulate  them  by  reflection,  seeing  the 
season  of  youth  and  vigour  irrecoverably  past,  its 
pleasing  scenes  annihilated,  and  its  brilliant  pros- 
pects left  far  behind,  without  the  possibility  of 
return,  and  feeUng,  at  the  same  time,  the  irresisti- 
ble encroachments  of  age,  with  its  disagreeable 
appendages,  are  surprised  and  disconcerted  by  a 
change  scarcely  expected,  or  for  which,  at  least, 
they  had  made  no  preparations.  A  person  in  this 
predicament,  finding  himself  no  longer  capable 
of  taking,  as  formerly,  a  part  in  the  busy  walks 
of  life,  of  enjoying  its  active  pleasures,  and  sharing 
its  arduous  enterprises,  becomes  peevish  and  uneasy. 


4  THE  pni:y.iu>r. 

troublesome  to  others,  and  burdensome  to  himself. 
Destitute  of  the  resources  of  philosophy,  and  a 
stranger  to  the  amusing  pursuits  of  literature,  he 
is  unacquainted  with  any  agreeable  method  of  till- 
ing up  the  vacuity  left  in  his  mind  by  liis  neces- 
sary recess  from  the  active  scenes  of  hfe. 

All  tliis  is  the  consequence  of  squandering  away 
the  days  of  youth  and  vigour  without  acquiring 
the  habit  of  thinking.  The  period  of  human  life, 
short  as  it  is,  is  of  sufiicient  length  for  the  acquisi- 
tion of  a  considerable  stock  of  useful  and  agreeable 
knowledge ;  and  the  circumstances  of  the  world 
alTord  a  superabundance  of  subjects  for  contempla- 
tion and  inquiry.  The  various  phenomena  of  the 
moral  as  well  as  physical  world,  the  investigation 
of  sciences,  and  the  information  communicated  by 
literature,  are  calculated  to  attract  attention,  exer- 
cise thought,  excite  reflection,  and  replenish  the 
mind  with  an  infinite  variety  of  ideas. 

The  man  of  letters,  when  compared  with  one 
that  is  ilUterate,  exhibits  nearly  the  same  contrast 
as  that  which  exists  between  a  blind  man  and  one 
that  can  see ;  and  if  we  consider  how  much  litera- 
ture enlarges  the  mind,  and  how  much  it  multipUes, 
adjusts,  rectifies,  and  arranges  the  ideas,  it  may  well 
be  reckoned  equivalent  to  an  additional  sense.  It 
atfords  pleasures  which  wealth  cannot  procure,  and 
which  poverty  cannot  entirely  take  away.  A  well 
cultivated  mind  places  its  possessor  beyond  the 
reach  of  those  trifling  vexations  and  disquietudes, 
which  continually  harass  and  perplex  those  who 
have  no  resomxes  within  themselves ;  and,  in  some 
measure,  elevates  him  above  the  smiles  and  frowns 
of  fortune.  biglaxd. 


THE  PRE?.IIU3f. 


NATURE  AND  ART. 


It  may  be  a  trite  observation,  but  it  is  at  the 
same  time  a  true  one,  that  "  there  is  neither  waste 
nor  ruin  in  nature,"  When  the  productions  of 
human  art  fall  into  decay,  they  are  gone ;  and  if 
the  artist  does  not  replace  them  by  new  formations, 
the  species  is  gone  also ;  but  the  works  of  nature 
are  their  own  repairers  and  continuers,  and  that 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  look  upon  as  destruc- 
tion and  putrefaction,  is  a  step  in  the  progress  of 
new  being  and  life.  This  is  the  grand  distinction 
between  the  productions  of  nature  and  those  of 
art ;  those  in  which  the  same  power  finds  both 
the  materials  and  the  form,  and  those  in  which 
the  form  is  merely  impressed  upon  previously  exist- 
ing materials. 

The  substances  in  nature,  are  in  themselves  en- 
dowed with  faculties,  unseen  and  inscrutable  by 
man  in  anything  but  their  results,  which  produce 
all  the  varied  forms  of  inorganic  and  organic  be- 
ing, of  which  the  solid  earth,  the  liquid  sea,  and 
the  fluid  air,  are  formed,  and  by  which  they  are 
inhabited.  The  fabrications  of  man  are,  on  the 
other  hand,  in  a  state  of  commenced  decay  the  in- 
stant that  they  are  made  ;  and  without  the  constant 
labour  of  repair,  and  replacing,  they  would  perish 
altogether.  The  most  extensive  cities,  and  the 
strongest  fortifications,  after  man  abandons  them 
to  their  fate,  fade  and  moulder  away,  so  that  the 
people  of  after-ages  dispute,  not  merely  about  the 
places  where  they  were  situated,  but  about  the  very 
fact  of  their  existence.  It  is  true,  that  when  man. 
takes  any  of  nature's  productions  out  of  the  place 
or  circumstances  for  which  nature  has  fitted  them, 
and  supports  them  by  artificial  means,  they  can- 


6  THE  PREMIUM. 

not  continue  to  exist  after  those  means  are  with- 
drawn, any  more  than  a  roof  can  remain  suspend- 
ed in  the  air,  after  the  walls  or  parts  that  supported 
it  are  withdrawn ;  or,  a  cork  will  remain  at  the 
bottom  of  a  basin  of  water,  after  the  weight  that 
kept  it  fi-om  rising  to  the  surface  has  been  removed. 
If  man  will  have  artificial  shelter  and  food,  he  must 
keep  in  repair  the  house  that  he  has  built,  trim  the 
garden  he  has  planted,  and  plough  and  sow  the 
field  from  which  he  is  to  obtain  his  artificial  crop ; 
but  if  he  would  content  himself  with  that  which  is 
produced  without  importation,  and  artificial  cul- 
ture, no  planting,  sowing,  or  culture,  is  necessary  ; 
for  whether  it  be  in  the  warm  regions,  or  in  the 
cold,  in  the  sheltered  valley,  or  upon  the  storm- 
beaten  hill,  in  the  close  forest,  or  upon  the  open 
down,  nature  does  her  part  without  intermission  or 
error  ;  and  while  the  results  are  so  many  and  so 
beautiful,  the  causes  are  those  qualities  with  which 
the  fiat  of  the  Almighty  endowed  the  elements, 
when  it  was  his  pleasure  to  speak  the  whole  into 
existence.  British  xaturalist. 


FLOWERS. 

The  return  of  May,  brings  over  us  a  Uving  sense 
of  the  loveliness  and  dehghtfulness  of  flowers.  Of 
all  the  minor  creations  of  God,  they  seem  to  be 
most  completely  the  effusions  of  his  love  of  beauty, 
grace  and  joy.  Of  all  the  natural  objects  which 
surround  us,  they  are  the  least  connected  with  our 
absolute  necessities.  Vegetation  might  proceed, 
the  earth  might  be  clothed  with  a  sober  green ;  all 
the  processes  of  fructification  might  be  perfected 
without  being  attended  by  the  glory  with  which  the 


THE  PREMIUM.  7 

flower  is  crowned  ;  but  beauty  and  fragrance  are 
poured  abroad  over  the  earth  in  blossoms  of  endless 
varieties,  radiant  evidences  of  the  boundless  benevo- 
lence of  the  Deity.  They  are  made  solely  to  glad- 
den the  heart  of  man,  for  a  light  to  his  eyes,  for  a 
living  inspiration  of  grace  to  his  spirit,  for  a  perpe- 
tual admiration.  And  accordingly,  they  seize  on 
our  affections  the  first  moment  that  we  behold  them. 
With  what  eagerness  do  very  infants  grasp  at  flow- 
ers !  As  they  become  older  they  would  live  for- 
ever amongst  them.  They  bound  about  in  the 
flowery  meadows  like  young  fawns;  they  gather 
all  they  come  near ;  they  collect  heaps ;  they  sit 
among  them,  and  sort  them,  and  sing  over  them, 
and  caress  them,  till  they  perish  in  their  grasp. 

This  sweet  May  morning, 

The  children  are  pulling 

On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide 

Fresh  flowers. 

WORDSWORTH. 

We  see  them  coming  wearily  into  the  towns  and 
villages,  with  their  pinafores  full,  and  posies  half 
as  large  as  themselves.  We  trace  them  in  shady 
lanes,  in  the  grass  of  far-off  fields,  by  the  treasures 
they  have  gathered  and  have  left  behind,  lured  on 
by  others  still  brighter.  As  they  grow  up  to  matu- 
rity, they  assume,  in  their  eyes,  new  characters  and 
beauties.  Then  they  are  strewn  around  them,  the 
poetry  of  the  earth.  They  become  invested  by  a 
multitude  of  associations  with  innumerable  spells 
of  power  over  the  human  heart ;  they  are  to  us  me- 
morials of  the  joys,  sorrows,  hopes,  and  triumphs 
of  our  forefathers :  they  are,  to  all  nations,  the  em- 
blems of  youth  in  its  loveliness  and  purity. 


9-  THE  PBE3IIUM. 

TO  THE  EVENIXG  W^^'D. 
Spirit,  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thoa 

That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 
Gratefully  flows  thy  fi-eshness  round  my  brow  ; 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 
Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  prests,  and  scattering  high  their 
spray, 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.    I  welcome  thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 

Nor  I  alone— a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 

And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 
Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 

Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade  ;  go  forth, 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest. 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast ; 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  'twixt  the  o'ershadowing  branches  and  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee  ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep 

And  they,  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed. 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep. 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 


THE  PRE3IIU.Tr.  9 

Go — ^but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
That  is  the  Ufe  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range. 
Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more ; 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore  ; 

And  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rusthng  leaf  and  running  stream. 

BRTAST. 


DESCRIPTION  OF   A  ROMAN   ENTERTAINMENT. 

If  an  ancient  Roman  could  start  from  his  slum- 
ber into  the  midst  of  European  life,  he  must  look 
with  scorn  on  its  absence  of  grace,  elegance,  and 
fancy.  But  it  is  in  its  festivities,  and,  most  of  all 
in  its  banquets,  that  he  would  feel  the  incurable 
barbarism  of  the  Gothic  blood.  Contrasted  with 
the  fine  displays  that  made  the  table  of  the  Roman 
noble  a  picture,  and  threw  over  the  indulgence  of 
appetite  the  colours  of  the  imagination  ;  with  what 
eyes  must  he  contemplate  the  tasteless  and  common- 
place dress,  the  coarse  attendants,  the  meagre  orna- 
ment, the  want  of  mirth,  music,  and  intellectual  in- 
terest— the  whole  heavy  machineiy  that  converts 
the  feast  into  the  mere  drudgery  of  devouring  ! 

The  guests  before  me  were  fifty  or  sixty,  splen- 
didly dressed  men,  attended  by  a  crowd  of  domes- 
tics attired  with  scarcely  less  splendour ;  for  no  man 
thought  of  coming  to  the  banquet  in  the  robes  of 
ordinary  life.  The  embroidered  couch,  itself  a 
striking  object,  allowed  the  ease  of  position,  at  once 
delightful  in  the  relaxing  climates  of  the  south,  and 
capable  of  combining  with  every  grace  of  the  hu- 
man figure.     At  a  shght  distance,  the  table,  loaded 


10  THE  PRE^riUM. 

with  plate  glittering  under  the  blaze  of  a  profusion 
of  lamps,  and  surrounded  by  couches  thus  covered 
with  rich  draperies,  was  like  a  central  source  of 
light,  radiating  in  broad  shafts  of  every  brilliant  hue. 
All  that  belonged  to  the  ornament  of  the  board 
was  superb.  The  wealth  of  the  patricians,  and  their 
perpetual  intercourse  with  Greece,  made  them  mas- 
ters of  the  finest  performances  of  the  arts.  The 
sums  expended  on  plate  were  enormous.  But  its 
taste  and  beauty  were  essential  to  the  refined  en- 
joyment of  the  banquet.  Copies  of  the  most  famous 
statues  and  groups  of  sculpture  in  the  precious  me- 
tals ;  trophies  of  the  victories  of  the  Greek  and  Ro- 
man ;  models  of  the  celebrated  temples  ;  were  min- 
gled with  the  vases  of  flowers  and  hghted  perfumes ; 
and  covering  and  colouring  all,  was  a  vast  scarlet 
canopy  which  combined  the  groups  beneath  the 
eye,  and  threw  the  whole  into  the  form  that  a  pain- 
ter would  love. 

But  the  true  skill  was  shown  in  the  constant 
prevention  of  that  want  of  topic,  which  turns  con- 
versation into  weariness.  There  was  a  perpetual 
succession  of  new  objects  and  excitements.  Even 
the  common  changes  of  the  table  were  made  to  as- 
sist this  purpose.  The  coming  in  of  each  course 
was  announced  by  music,  and  the  attendants  were 
preceded  by  a  procession  of  minstrels  dancing, 
chaplet-crowned,  and  playing  popular  melodies. 
Between  the  courses,  a  higher  entertainment  was 
offered  in  the  recitations,  pleasantries  read  or  acted 
by  a  class  of  professional  satirists  of  the  absurdities 
of  the  day. 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  how  fertile  a  source  of  in- 
terest this  nmst  have  been  made  by  the  subtle  and 
splenetic  ItaUan,  moving  through  Roman  life,  the 
most  various,  animating,  and  fantastic  scene,  in 


THE  PREMIUM.  11 

which  society  ever  shone.  The  recitations  were 
always  looked  to  as  the  charm  of  the  feast.  They 
were  often  severe  ;  but  their  severity  was  reserved 
for  public  men  and  matters.  The  court  supplied 
the  most  tempting  and  popular  ridicule  :  but  the  re- 
citer was  a  privileged  person,  and  all  the  better  hu- 
moured Caesars  bore  the  castigation  without  a  mur- 
mur. No  man  in  the  empire  was  more  laughed  at 
than  Vespasian,  and  no  man  oftener  joined  in  the 
laugh.  One  of  his  morning's  sports  was  to  collect 
the  burlesques  of  the  night  before,  give  them  new 
pungency  by  a  touch  of  the  imperial  pen,  and  then 
despatch  them  to  make  their  way  through  the  world. 
The  strong-headed  sovereign  knew  the  value  of  an 
organ  of  public  opinion,  and  used  to  call  their  pe- 
rusal, "  sitting  for  his  picture."  The  picture  was 
sometimes  so  strong,  that  the  courtiers  trembled. 
But  the  veteran  who  had  borne  thirty  years  of  bat- 
tle, laid  it  up  among  "  his  portraits,"  laughed  the 
insult  away  ;  and  repeated  his  popular  saying,  "that 
when  he  was  old  enough  to  come  to  years  of  discre- 
tion, and  give  up  the  emperor,  he  should  become 
reciter  himself,  and  have  his  turn  with  the  world." 
The  recitations  again  were  varied,  by  a  sportive 
lottery  in  which  the  guests  drew  prizes ;  sometimes 
of  value,  gems  and  plate  ;  sometimes  merely  an 
epigram,  or  a  caricature.  The  banquet  generally 
closed  with  a  theatric  dance  by  the  chief  pubhc  per- 
formers of  the  day  ;  and  the  finest  forms  and  most 
delicate  art  of  Greece  and  Iberia  displayed — the 
story  of  Theseus  and  Ariadne  ;  the  flight  of  Jason  ; 
the  fate  of  Semele,  or  some  other  of  the  brilliant 
fictions  of  their  poetry.  In  the  presence  of  this 
vivid  scene,  sat  tempering  its  wildness  by  the  ma- 
jesty of  religion,  the  three  great  tutelar  idols  of 
Rome,  Jove,  Juno,  and  Minerva,  of  colossal  height. 


12  THE  PHEMIU.M. 

throned  at  the  head  of  the  hall ;  completing,  false 
as  they  were,  the  most  singular  and  dazzUng  com- 
bination that  man  ever  saw,  of  the  dehght  of  the 
senses  with  the  dehght  of  the  mind.  cEOLr. 


THE  EVENING  CLOUD. 


A  cLorr  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun — 

A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow  ; 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on, 

O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed  and  floated  slow ; 

E'en  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest, 
Vv'hile  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to  blow, 

Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west — 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul. 

To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given, 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 

Right  onward  to  the  golden  gates  of  heaven  ; 
Where,  to  the  eye  of  faith,  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 

WILSOJT, 


SOLITUDE. 

'Tis  night  when  meditation  bids  us  feel 

We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end ; 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baifled  zeal. 
Though   friendless  now,  will  deem  it  had  a 

friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to 
bend. 
When  youth  itself  survives  young  love  and  joy  ] 
Alas  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 


THE  PKEMrUM.  13 

Death  has  but  little  left  him  to  destroy  ! 
Ah  !  happy  years  !  once  more  who  would  not  be  a 
boy  ? 

Thus,  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laying  side, 

To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere, 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  hope  and  pride, 

And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 

None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possessed 

A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear — 
A  flashing  pang  !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heaNy  heart  divest. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 
Where   things  that   own  not   man's  dominion 
dwell. 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  ail  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold  : 

Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean  ; — 
This  is  not  solitude  ;  'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores 
unrolled. 

But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men, 

To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen. 

With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can 
bless ; 

Minions  of  splendour  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 

If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less, 
Of  all  that  flattered,  followed,  sought  and  sued  ; — 
This  is  to  be  alone ;  this,  this  is  solitude  ! 


14  THE  rREMIUM. 

THE  TIGERS  CAVE. 

Ox  leaving  the  Indian  village,  we  continued  to 
wind  round  Chimborazo's  wide  base  ;  but  its  snow- 
crowned  head  no  longer  shone  above  us  in  clear 
brilliancy,  for  a  dense  fog  was  gathering  gradually 
around  it.  Our  guides  looked  anxiously  towards 
it,  and  announced  their  apprehensions  of  a  violent 
storm.  We  soon  found  that  their  fears  were  well 
founded.  The  thunder  began  to  roll,  and  resound- 
ed through  the  mountainous  passes  with  the  most 
terrific  grandeur.  Then  came  the  vivid  lightning; 
flash  following  flash — above,  around,  beneath — 
everywhere  a  sea  of  fire.  We  sought  a  momenta- 
r}'  shelter  in  a  cleft  of  the  rocks,  whilst  one  of  our 
guides  hastened  forward  to  seek  a  more  secure  asy- 
lum. In  a  short  time,  he  returned,  and  informed 
us  that  he  had  discovered  a  spacious  cavern,  which 
would  aflbrd  us  sufficient  protection  from  the  ele- 
ments. We  proceeded  tliither  immediately,  and, 
with  great  difficulty,  and  not  a  little  danger,  at  last 
got  into  it. 

When  the  storm  had  somewhat  abated,  our 
guides  ventured  out  in  order  to  ascertain  if  it  were 
possible  to  continue  our  journey.  The  cave  in 
which  we  had  taken  refuge,  was  so  extremely  dark, 
that,  if  we  moved  a  few  paces  from  the  entrance, 
we  could  not  see  an  inch  before  us ;  and  we  were 
debating  as  to  the  propriety  of  leaving  it,  even  be- 
fore the  Inclians  came  back,  when  we  suddenly 
heard  a  singular  groaning  or  growling  in  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  cavern,  which  instantly  fixed  all 
our  attention.  W  barton  and  myself  listened  anx- 
iously ;  but  our  daring  and  inconsiderate  young 
friend  Lincoln,  together  with  my  huntsman,  crept 
about  upon  their  hands  and  knees,  and  endeavoured 


THE  PREMlOr.  15 

to  discover,  by  groping,  from  whence  the  sound 
proceeded. 

They  had  not  advanced  far  into  the  cavern,  be- 
fore we  heard  them  utter  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise ;  and  they  returned  to  us,  each  carrj-ing  in  his 
arms  an  animal  singularly  marked,  and  about  the 
size  of  a  cat,  seemingly  of  great  strength  and  pow- 
er, and  furnished  with  immense  fangs.  The  eyes 
were  of  a  green  colour ;  strong  claws  were  upon 
their  feet ;  and  a  blood-red  tongue  hung  out  of  their 
mouths.  Wharton  had  scarcely  glanced  at  them, 
when  he  exclaimed  in  consternation,  "  We  have 
come  into  the  den  of  a  — "  He  was  interrupted 
by  a  fearful  cry  of  dismay  from  our  guides,  who 
came  rushing  precipitately  towards  us,  calling  out, 
"  A  tiger  !  a  tiger  !"  and  at  the  same  time,  with  ex- 
traordinary rapidity,  they  climbed  up  a  cedar  tree, 
which  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  and  hid 
themselves  among  the  branches. 

After  the  first  sensation  of  horror  and  surprise, 
which  rendered  me  motionless  for  a  moment,  had 
subsided,  I  grasped  my  fire-arms.  Wharton  had 
already  regained  his  composure  and  self-possession ; 
and  he  called  to  us  to  assist  him  instantly  in  block- 
ing up  the  mouth  of  the  cave  vrith  an  immense 
stone,  which  fortunately  lay  near  it.  The  sense  ol 
approaching  danger  augmented  our  strength;  for 
we  now  distinctly  heard  the  growl  of  the  ferocious 
animal,  and  we  were  lost  beyond  redemption  if  he 
reached  the  entrance  before  we  could  get  it  closed. 
Ere  this  was  done,  we  could  distinctly  see  the  tiger 
bounding  towards  the  spot,  and  stooping  in  order 
to  creep  into  his  den  by  the  narrow  opening.  At 
this  fearful  moment,  our  exertions  were  successful, 
and  the  great  stone  kept  the  wild  beast  at  bay. 

There  was  a  small  open  space,  however,  left  be- 


16  THE  PRE3nrM:, 

tween  the  top  of  the  entrance  and  the  stone,  through 
which  we  could  see  the  head  of  the  animal,  illumi- 
nated by  his  glowing  eyes,  which  he  rolled  glaringly 
with  fury  upon  us.  His  frightful  roaring,  too,  pene- 
trated to  the  depths  of  the  cavern,  and  was  an- 
swered by  the  hoarse  growling  of  the  cubs.  Our 
ferocious  enemy  attempted  first  to  remove  the  stone 
with  his  powerful  claws,  and  then  to  push  it  with 
his  head  from  its  place ;  and  these  efibrts,  proving 
abortive,  served  only  to  increase  his  wrath.  He 
uttered  a  tremendous  heart-piercing  howl,  and  his 
flammg  eyes  darted  light  into  the  darkness  of  our 
retreat.  < 

"  Now  is  the  time  to  fire  at  him,"  said  Wharton, 
with  his  usual  calmness  ;  "  aim  at  his  eyes,  the  ball 
will  go  through  his  brain,  and  we  shall  then  have 
a  chance  to  get  rid  of  him." 

Frank  seized  his  double-barrelled  gun,  and  Lin- 
coln his  pistols.  The  former  placed  the  muzzle 
within  a  few  inches  of  the  tiger,  and  Lincoln  did 
the  same.  At  Wharton's  command,  they  both  drew 
the  triggers  at  the  same  moment ;  but  no  shot  fol- 
lowed. The  tiger,  who  seemed  aware  that  the 
flash  indicated  an  attack  upon  him,  sprang  growl- 
ing from  the  entrance,  but,  feeling  himself  unhurt, 
immediately  turned  back  again,  and  stationed  him- 
self in  his  former  place.  The  powder  in  botli  pie- 
ces was  wet. 

"  All  is  now  over,"  said  Wharton  ;  "  we  have 
only  now  to  choose  whether  we  shall  die  of  hunger, 
together  with  these  animals  who  are  shut  up  along 
with  us,  or  open  the  entrance  to  the  blood-thirsty 
monster  without,  and  so  make  a  quicker  end  of  the 
matter." 

So  saying  he  placed  himself  close  beside  the 
stone,  which,  for  the  moment,  defended  us,  and 


THE  PREMIUM.  17 

looked  undauntedly  upon  the  lightning  eyes  of  the 
tiger.  Lincoln  raved,  and  Frank  took  a  piece  of 
strong  cord  from  his  pocket,  and  hastened  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  cave ;  I  knew  not  with  what 
design.  We  soon,  however,  heard  a  low,  stifled 
groaning  ;  and  the  tiger  which  had  heard  it  also, 
became  more  restless  and  disturbed  than  ever.  He 
went  backwards  and  forwards  before  the  entrance 
of  the  cave,  in  the  most  wild  and  impetuous  man- 
ner ;  then  stood  still,  and,  stretching  out  his  neck 
in  the  direction  of  the  forest,  broke  forth  in  a  deaf- 
ening howl. 

Our  two  Indian  guides  took  advantage  of  this 
opportunity,  to  discharge  several  arrows  from  the 
tree.  He  was  struck  more  than  once  ;  but  the  light 
weapons  bounded  back  harmless  from  his  thick  skin. 
At  length,  however,  one  of  them  struck  hira  near 
the  eye,  and  the  arrow  remained  sticking  in  the 
woinid.  He  now  broke  anew  into  the  wildest  fury, 
sprang  at  the  tree,  and  tore  it  with  his  claws,  as 
if  he  would  have  dragged  it  to  the  ground.  But 
having,  at  length,  succeeded  in  getting  rid  of  the  ar- 
row, he  became  more  calm,  and  laid  himself  down, 
as  before,  in  front  of  the  cave. 

Frank  now  returned  from  the  lower  end  of  the 
den,  and  a  glance  showed  us  what  he  had  been 
doing.  In  each  hand,  and  dangling  from  the  end 
of  the  string,  were  the  two  cubs.  He  had  strangled 
them ;  and,  before  we  were  aware  what  he  intend- 
ed, he  threw  them  through  the  opening  to  the  ti- 
ger. No  sooner  did  the  animal  perceive  them,  than 
he  gazed  earnestly  upon  them,  and  began  to  exa- 
mine them  closely,  turning  them  cautiously  from 
side  to  side.  As  soon  as  he  became  aware  that  they 
were  dead,  he  uttered  so  piercing  a  howl  of  sorrow, 
that  we  were  obliged  to  put  our  hands  to  our  ears. 
B 


18  THE  PREMIUM. 

The  thunder  had  now  ceased,  and  the  storm  had 
sunk  to  a  gentle  gale ;  the  songs  of  birds  were  again 
heard  in  the  neighbouring  forest,  and  the  sunbeams 
sparkled  in  the  drops  that  hung  from  the  leaves, 
We  saw,  through  the  aperture,  how  all  nature  waa 
reviving,  after  the  wild  war  of  elements,  which  had 
so  recently  taken  place  ;  but  the  contrast  only  made 
our  situation  the  more  horrible.  We  were  in  a 
grave,  from  which  there  was  no  deliverance ;  and  a 
monster  worse  than  the  fabled  Cerberus,  kept 
watch  over  us.  The  tiger  had  laid  himself  down 
beside  liis  whelps.  He  was  a  beautiful  animal,  of 
great  size  and  strength;  and  his  limbs,  being 
stretched  out  at  their  full  length,  displayed  his  im- 
mense power  of  muscle.  A  double  row  of  great 
teeth  stood  far  enough  apart  to  show  his  large  red 
tongue,  from  which  the  white  foam  fell  in  largo 
drops.  All  at  once,  another  roar  was  heard  at  a 
distance,  and  the  tiger  immediately  rose  and  an- 
swered it  v.'ith  a  mournful  howl.  At  the  same 
instant,  our  Indians  uttered  a  shriek,  which  an- 
nounced that  some  new  danger  threatened  us.  A 
few  moments  confirmed  our  worst  fears  ;  for  ano- 
ther tiger,  not  quite  so  large  as  the  former,  came 
rapidly  towards  the  spot  where  we  were. 

The  howls  which  the  tigress  gave,  when  she  had 
examined  the  bodies  of  her  cubs,  surpassed  every- 
thing horrible  that  we  had  yet  heard  ;  and  the  tiger 
mingled  his  mournful  cries  with  hers.  Suddenly 
her  roaring  was  lowered  to  a  hoarse  growling,  and 
we  saw  her  anxiously  stretch  out  her  head,  extend 
her  wide  and  smoking  nostrils,  and  look  as  if  she 
were  determined  to  discover  immediately  the  mur- 
derers of  her  young.  Her  eyes  quickly  fell  upon 
us,  and  she  made  a  spring  forward,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  penetrating  to  our  place  of  refuge.  Perhaps 


THE  PHEMtrTtf.  19 

she  might  have  been  enabled  by  her  immense 
strength,  to  push  away  the  stone,  had  we  not,  with 
all  our  united  power,  held  it  against  her.  When 
she  found  that  all  her  efforts  were  fruitless,  she 
approached  the  tiger,  who  lay  stretched  out  beside 
his  cubs,  and  he  rose  and  joined  in  her  hollow  roar- 
ings. They  stood  together  for  a  few  moments, 
as  if  in  consultation,  then  suddenly  went  off  at  a 
rapid  pace,  and  disappeared  from  our  sight.  Their 
howling  died  away  in  the  distance,  and  then  entire- 
ly ceased. 

Our  Indians  descended  from  their  tree,  and  called 
upon  us  to  seize  the  only  possibility  of  our  yet  sa- 
ving ourselves,  by  instant  flight ;  for  that  the  tigers 
had  only  gone  round  the  height  to  seek  another  in- 
let to  the  cave,  with  which  they  were,  no  doubt, 
acquainted.  In  the  greatest  haste  tlie  stone  was 
pushed  aside,  and  we  stept  forth  from  what  we  had 
considered  a  living  grave.  We  now  heard  once 
more  the  roaring  of  the  tigers,  though  at  a  distance  ; 
and,  following  the  example  of  our  guides,  we  pre- 
cipitately struck  into  a  side  path.  From  the  num- 
ber of  roots  and  branches  of  trees,  with  which  the 
storm  had  strewed  our  way,  and  the  slipperiness 
of  the  road,  our  flight  was  slow  and  difficult. 

We  had  proceeded  thus  for  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  when  we  found  that  our  way  led  along  the 
edge  of  a  rocky  cliff,  with  innumerable  fissures. 
We  had  just  entered  upon  it,  when  suddenly  the 
Indians,  who  were  before  us,  uttered  one  of  their 
piercing  shrieks,  and  we  immediately  became  aware 
that  the  tigers  were  in  pursuit  of  us.  Urged  by 
despair,  we  rushed  towards  one  of  the  breaks,  or 
gulfs,  in  our  way,  over  which  was  thrown  a  bridge 
of  reeds,  that  sprang  up  and  down  at  every  step, 
and  could  be  trod  with  safety  by  the  light  foot  of 


20  THE  PKEMIUM. 

the  Indians  alone.  Deep  in  the  hollow  below 
rushed  an  impetuous  stream,  and  a  thousand  point- 
ed and  jagged  rocks  threatened  destruction  on  every 
side. 

Lincoln,  my  huntsman,  and  myself,  passed  over 
the  chasm  in  safety  ;  but  Wharton  was  still  in  the 
middle  of  the  wa%'ing  bridge,  and  endeavouring  to 
steady  himself,  when  both  the  tigers  were  seen  to 
issue  from  the  adjoining  forest ;  and  the  moment 
they  descried  us,  they  bounded  towards  us  with 
dreadful  roarings.  Meanwhile,  Wharton  had  nearly 
gained  the  safe  side  of  the  gulf,  and  we  were  all 
clambering  up  the  rocky  cliff  except  Lincoln,  who 
remained  at  the  reedy  bridge  to  assist  his  friend 
to  step  upon  firm  ground.  Wharton,  though  the 
ferocious  animals  were  close  upon  him,  never  lost 
his  courage  or  presence  of  mind.  As  soon  as  he 
had  gained  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  he  knelt  down,  and 
with  his  sword  divided  the  fastenings  by  which  the 
bridge  was  attached  to  the  rock. 

He  expected  that  an  effectual  barrier  would  thus 
be  put  to  the  farther  progress  of  our  pursuers  ;  but 
he  was  mistaken  ;  for  he  had  scarcely  accomplished 
his  task,  when  the  tigress,  without  a  moment's 
pause,  rushed  towards  the  chasm,  and  attempted  to 
bound  over  it.  It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see  the 
mighty  animal  suspended,  for  a  moment,  in  the  air 
above  the  abyss  ;  but  the  scene  passed  like  a  flash  ol 
hghtning.  Her  strength  was  not  equal  to  the  dis- 
tance :  she  fell  into  the  gulf,  and,  before  she  reached 
the  bottom,  she  was  torn  into  a  thousand  pieces  by 
the  jagged  points  of  the  rocks.  Her  fate  did  not 
in  the  least  dismay  her  companion;  he  followed 
her  with  an  immense  spring,  and  reached  the  op- 
posite side,  but  only  with  his  fore  claws ;  and  Uius 
he  clung  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  endeavour- 


THE  PHEMIL'M.  21 

ing  to  gain  a  footing.     The  Indians  again  uttered 
a  wild  shriek,  as  if  all  hope  had  been  lost. 

But  Wharton,  who  was  nearest  the  edge  of  the 
rock,  advanced  courageously  towards  the  tiger,  and 
struck  his  sword  into  the  animal's  breast.  Enraged 
beyond  all  measure,  the  wild  beast  collected  all  his 
strength,  and,  with  a  violent  effort,  fixing  one  of  his 
hind  legs  upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  he  seized 
Wharton  by  the  thigh.  That  heroic  man  still  pre- 
served his  fortitude ;  he  grasped  the  trunk  of  a  tree 
with  his  left  hand,  while,  with  his  right,  he  wrenched 
and  violently  tvimed  the  sword  that  was  still  in  the 
breast  of  the  tiger.  All  this  was  the  work  of  an 
instant.  The  Indians,  Frank,  and  myself,  hastened 
to  his  assistance ;  but  Lincoln,  who  was  already  at 
his  side,  had  seized  Wharton's  gun,  which  lay  near 
upon  the  ground,  and  struck  so  powerful  a  blow 
with  the  butt  end  upon  the  head  of  the  tiger,  that 
the  animal,  stunned  and  overpowered,  let  go  his 
hold,  and  fell  back  into  the  abyss. 

EDIS^BCRG  LITERARY  JOUHXAL. 


HOLY  FLOWERS. 
Wo 's  me — how  knowledge  makes  forlorn ; 
The  forest  and  the  field  are  shorn 
Of  their  old  growth,  the  holy  flowers  ; — 
Or  if  they  spring,  they  are  not  ours. 
In  ancient  days  the  peasant  saw 
Them  growing  in  the  woodland  shaw, 
And  bending  to  his  daily  toil, 
Beheld  them  deck  the  leafy  soil ; 
They  sprang  around  his  cottage  door ; 
He  saw  them  on  the  heathy  moor ; 


22  THE  PHEMIUX. 

Within  the  forest's  twilight  glade, 
Where  the  wild-deer  its  covert  made ; 
In  the  green  vale  remote  and  still, 
And  gleaming  on  the  ancient  hill. 
The  days  are  distant  now,  gone  by 
With  the  old  times  of  minstrelsy, 
When  all  unblest  with  written  lore, 
Were  treasured  up  traditions  hoar  ; 
And  each  still  lake  and  mountain  lone 
Had  a  wild  legend  of  its  own  ; 
And  hall,  and  cot,  and  valley-stream 
Were  hallowed  by  the  minstrel's  dream. 
Then  musing  in  the  woodland  nook, 
Each  flower  was  as  a  written-book, 
RecalUng,  by  memorial  quaint, 
The  holy  deed  of  martyred  saint ; 
The  patient  faith,  which,  unsubdued, 
Grew  mightier  through  fire  and  blood. 
One  blossom,  'mid  its  leafy  shade 
The  virgin's  purity  pourtrayed; 
And  one  with  cup  all  crimson  dyed. 
Spoke  of  a  Saviour  crucified  : 
And  rich  the  store  of  holy  thought 
That  little  forest-flower  brought. 
Doctrine  and  miracle,  whate'er 
We  draw  from  books  was  treasured  there. 
Faith  in  the  wild-wood's  tangled  bound 
A  blessed  heritage  had  found  ; 
And  Charity  and  Hope  were  seen 
In  the  lone  isle  and  wild  ravine. 
Then  Pilgrims  in  the  forest  brown 
Slow  wandering  on  from  town  to  town, 
Halting  'mid  mosses  green  and  dank. 
Breathed  each  a  prayer  before  they  drank 
From  waters  by  the  pathway  side. 
Then  duly  mom  and  even-tide, 


THE  PTIEMIUX.  23 

Before  those  ancient  crosses  gray, 
Now  mouldering  silently  away, 
Aged  and  young  devoutly  bent 
In  simple  prayer,  how  eloquent ! 
For  each  good  gift  man  then  possessed 
Demanded  blessing  and  was  blest. 

What  though  in  our  pride's  selfish  mood, 
"We  hold  those  times  as  dark  as  rude, 
Yet  give  we,  from  our  wealth  of  mind, 
FeeUng  more  grateful  or  refined  ] 
And  yield  we  unto  nature  aught 
Of  loftier,  or  of  holier  thought. 
Than  they,  who  gave  sublimest  power 
To  the  small  spring  and  simple  flower  1 

MAHY  HOWITT. 


HOW  TO  BECOME  A  NATURALIST. 
The  only  sure  way  to  become  naturalists,  in  the 
most  pleasing  sense  of  the  term,  is  to  observe  the 
habits  of  the  plants  and  animals  that  we  see  around 
us,  not  so  much  with  a  view  of  finding  out  what 
is  uncommon,  as  of  being  well  acquainted  with 
that  which  is  of  every  day  occurrence.  Nor  is 
this  a  task  of  difficult^',  or  one  of  dull  routine. 
Every  change  of  elevation  or  exposure,  is  accom- 
panied by  a  variation  both  in  plants  and  in  ani- 
mals ;  and  every  season  and  week,  nay  almost 
every  day,  brings  sometliing  new  ;  so  that  while 
the  book  of  nature  is  more  accessible  and  more 
easily  read,  than  the  books  of  the  library,  it  is,  at 
the  same  time,  more  varied.  In  whatever  place  or 
at  whatever  time  one  may  be  disposed  to  take  a 
walk, — in  the  most  sublime  scenes,  or  on  the  bleak- 
est wastes,^-on  arid  downs,  or  by  the  margins  of 


24  THE    PREMIUM. 

rivers  or  lakes, — inland,  or  by  the  sea-shore, — in 
the  wild  or  on  the  cultivated  ground, — and  m  all 
kinds  of  weather  and  all  seasons  of  the  year, — 
nature  is  open  to  our  inquiry.  The  sky  over  us, 
the  earth  beneath  our  feet,  the  scenery  around,  the 
animals  that  gambol  in  the  open  spaces,  those  that 
hide  themselves  in  coverts,  the  birds  that  twitter 
on  the  wing,  sing  in  the  grove,  ride  upon  the  wave, 
or  float  along  the  sky,  with  the  fishes  that  tenant 
the  waters,  the  insects  that  make  the  summer  air 
alive, — all  that  God  has  made,  is  to  us  for  know- 
ledge and  pleasure,  and  usefulness  and  health; 
and  when  we  have  studied  and  known  the  won- 
ders of  his  workmanship,  we  have  made  one  im- 
portant step  toward  the  adoration  of  His  omnipo- 
tence, and  obedience  to  His  will.  axon. 


THE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 

The  stately  Homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand  ! 
Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees. 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land. 
The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 

Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam. 
And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  a  sound 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night. 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet,  in  the  ruddy  Ught ! 
There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  song. 

Or  childhood's  tale  is  told, 


THE    PREMIUM. 

Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 
Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness, 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath-hours  ! 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-beH's  chime 

Floats  through  their  woods  at  mom  ; 
All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

The  Cottage  Homes  of  England! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 
They  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 
Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves, 
And  fearless  there  they  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall, 
May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  reared, 

To  guard  each  hallowed  wall ! 
And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves, 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 
Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  country  and  its  God  ! 

MRS.    HEMANS. 


THE  CLEMENCY  OF  LUITPRAND. 

The  Lombards,  or  "  long  beards,"  who  fought 
under  Alboin,  are  thus  described  by  Gibbon  : — 
"  Their  heads  were  shaven  behind,  but  the  shaggy 


26  THE    PREMirX. 

locks  hung  over  their  eyes  and  mouth  ;  and  a  long 
beard  represented  the  name  and  character  of  the 
nation.  Their  dress  consisted  of  loose  linen  gar- 
ments, after  the  fashion  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  which 
were  decorated,  in  their  opinion,  with  broad  stripes 
of  various  colours.  The  legs  and  feet  were  clothed 
in  long  ho.se  and  open  sandals  ;  and  even  in  the 
security  of  peace,  a  trusty  sword  was  girt  to  their 
side.  Yet  this  strange  apparel  and  horrid  aspect 
often  concealed  a  gentle  and  generous  disposition ; 
and  as  soon  as  the  rage  of  battle  had  subsided,  the 
captives  and  subjects  were  sometimes  surprised  by 
the  humanity  of  the  \dctor." 

The  Lombards  so  rapidly  improved  in  civiliza" 
tion,  that  two  or  three  hundred  years  after  the 
establishment  of  their  kingdom,  they  viewed  with 
surprise  and  dislike  the  savage  portraits  of  their 
forefathers.  They  had  become  le?s  addicted  to 
war,  and  fonder  of  the  gentler  pursuits  of  hunting 
and  falconry.  The  Italians  could  not  at  first  suf- 
ficiently express  their  astonishment  at  beholding 
hawks  trained  to  obey  the  voice  of  a  master,  and 
bring  down  his  prey  at  the  word  of  command. 

Twenty-one  Lombard  kings  successively  mounted 
the  throne.  Their  reigns  are  distinguished  by  few 
events  of  interest,  and  the  Lombard  power  gradually 
decayed  till  it  was  finally  extinguished  by  Charle- 
magne. Of  Luitprand,  the  seventeenth  king  of 
Lombardy,  the  following  interesting  anecdote  is 
related. 

Information  was  brought  to  him  that  two  of  his 
courtiers,  in  whom  he  reposed  particular  confidence, 
had  conspired  agamst  his  life.  As  the  proofs  of 
their  guilty  design  were  too  strong  to  admit  of 
doubt,  he  resolved  to  speak  to  them  openly  on  the 
subject,  and  summoned  them  into  his  presence. 


THE    PKEMIUX.  27 

On  their  appearing  before  him,  he  asked  them, 
with  some  gravit\',  whether  they  had  not  always 
found  him  a  kind  friend.  They  answ  ered  that  they 
had.  He  then  inquired  of  them  whether  he  had 
not  always  consulted  them  on  all  occasions,  and 
confided  to  them  his  most  secret  thoughts  and  in- 
tentions. They  replied  in  the  affirmative.  "  Then," 
demanded  Luitprand,  mildly,  "  how  comes  it  that 
you  could  find  it  in  your  hearts  to  conspire  against 
the  life  of  so  kind  a  friend  1  What  advantage 
could  you  hope  to  enjoy,  if  purchased  with  my 
death  ]  Should  you  be  likely  to  find  as  gentle  a 
master  in  my  successor  ?  Were  you  so  bUnd  as  to 
imagine  that  you  would  be  permitted  to  share  a 
throne  rendered  vacant  by  so  perfidious  an  act  1 
Even  should  you  have  obtained  it,  metliinks  its 
possession  would  have  been  imbittered  by  the  me- 
mory of  your  treachery,  and  your  constant  sus- 
picions and  jealousy  of  each  other.  You  now  per- 
ceive that  the  most  secret  thoughts  of  your  bosoms 
have  been  as  open  to  my  eyes,  as  mine  ever  have 
been  to  yours.  How  can  you  answer  for  your- 
selves 1"  The  guilty  courtiers,  filled  with  the  most 
lively  terror  at  this  appeal,  were  unable  to  conceal 
their  dismay,  and  fell,  pale  and  trembling,  at  their 
master's  feet.  "  Rise,  my  friends,"  said  Luitprand, 
with  gentleness,  "  I  am  con%-inced  that  whatever 
your  past  intentions  may  have  been,  you  will 
henceforth  be  my  most  zealous  and  faithful  ser- 
vants. I  restore  you  to  my  full  atiection  and  con- 
fidence, and  trust  I  shall  never  find  occasion  to  say 
that  it  has  been  misplaced." 

The  monarch's  clemency  filled  the  two  courtiers 
with  contrition,  and  their  after  conduct  gave  him 
no  reason  to  repent  its  exercise.  ma>>'Ixg. 


5RJ  THE    PBEXIUM. 

THE  TORCH  OF  LIBERTY. 
I  SAW  it  all  in  Fancy's  glass — 

Herself,  the  fair,  the  wild  magician, 
That  bid  this  splendid  day-dream  pass 

And  named  each  gliding  apparition. 

'Twas  like  a  torch  race — such  as  they 

Of  Greece  performed,  in  ages  gone, 
When  the  fleet  youths,  in  long  array, 

Passed  the  bright  torch  triumphant  on. 
I  saw  the  expectant  nations  stand, 

To  catch  the  coming  flame  in  turn — 
I  saw,  from  ready  hand  to  hand, 

The  clear,  but  struggling  glory  burn. 

And,  oh,  their  joy,  as  it  came  near, 

'Tw^s,  in  itself,  a  joy  to  see — 
While  Fancy  whispered  in  my  ear, 

'That  torch  they  pass  is  Liberty  !' 
And  each,  as  she  received  the  flame. 

Lighted  her  altar  with  its  ray  ; 
Then,  smiling,  to  the  next  who  came, 

Speeded  it  on  its  sparkling  way. 

From  Albion  first,  whose  ancient  shrine 
Was  furnished  with  the  fire  already, 

Columbia  caught  the  spark  divine. 
And  lit  a  flame  like  Albion's,  steady. 

The  splendid  gift  then  Gallia  took. 
And,  like  a  wild  Bacchante,  raising 

The  brand  aloft,  its  sparkles  shook, 
As  she  would  set  the  world  a-blazing ! 

And,  when  she  fired  her  altar,  high 
It  flashed  into  the  reddening  air, 

So  fierce,  that  Albion,  who  stood  nigh, 
Shrunk,  almost  blinded  by  the  glare  ! 


THE  PKKMIUM.  29 

Next,  Spain,  so  new  was  light  to  her, 
Leaped  at  the  torch — but,  ere  the  spark 

She  flung  upon  her  shrine  could  stir, 

'T  was  quenched — and  all  again  was  dark. 

Yet,  no — not  quenched — a  treasure  worth — 

So  much  to  mortals,  rarely  dies — 
Again  her  living  light  looked  forth, 

And  shone,  a  beacon,  in  all  eyes  ! 

"Who  next  received  the  flame  ]  alas  ! 

Unworthy  Naples. — Sbame  of  shames 
That  ever  through  such  hands  should  pass 

That  brightest  of  all  earthly  flames  ! 

Scarce  had  her  fingers  touched  the  torch, 
When  frighted  by  the  sparks  it  shed, 

Nor  waiting  e'en  to  feel  the  scorch, 
She  dropped  it  to  the  earth — and  fled. 

And  fallen  it  might  have  long  remained ; 

But  Greece  who  saw  her  moment  now, 
Caught  up  the  prize,  though  prostrate  stained, 

And  waved  it  round  her  beauteous  brow. 

And  Fancy  bade  me  mark  where,  o'er 

Her  altar,  as  its  flame  ascended, 
Fair  laureled  spirits  seemed  to  soar. 

Who  thus  in  song  their  voices  blended  : — 

*  Shine,  shine  forever,  glorious  flame, 

Divinest  gift  of  Gods,  to  men  ! 
From  Greece  thy  earliest  splendour  came, 
To  Greece  thy  ray  returns  again. 

*  Take,  Freedom,  take  thy  radiant  round ; 

When  dimmed,  re\ive,  when  lost  return, 
Till  not  a  shrine  through  earth  be  found, 
On  which  thy  glories  shall  not  bum  !' 

T.  MOORS 


30  THE  PRE^riOI. 

AX  ENGLISH  SPRING  MORNING. 
TflEiiE  are  frequently  mornings  in  March,  when 
a  lover  of  nature  may  enjoy,  in  a  stroll,  sensations 
not  to  be  exceeded,  or  perhaps  equalled  by  anything 
which  the  full  glory  of  summer  can  awaken  :— 
mornings  which  tempt  us  to  cast  the  memory  of 
winter,  or  the  fear  of  its  return,  out  of  our  thoughts. 
The  air  is  mild  and  balmy,  with  now  and  then,  a 
cool  gush  by  no  means  unpleasant,  but  on  the  con- 
trary, contributing  towards  that  cheering  and  pecu- 
liar feeUng  which  we  experience  only  in  spring. 
The  sky  is  clear ;  the  sun  flings  abroad  not  only 
a  gladdening  splendour,  but  an  almost  summer  glow. 
The  world  seems  suddenly  aroused  to  hope  and 
enjoyment.  The  fields  are  assuming  a  vernal 
greenness — the  buds  are  swelling  in  the  hedges — 
the  banks  are  displaying  amidst  the  brown  remsuns 
of  last  year's  vegetation,  the  luxuriant  weeds  of 
this.  There  are  arums,  ground-ivy,  chervil,  the 
glaucus  leaves,  and  burnished  flowers  of  the  pile- 
woit, 

The  first  gilt  thine 
That  wears  the  trembling  pearls  of  spring  : 

and  many  other  fresh  and  early  bursts  of  greenery. 
All  unexpectedly,  too,  in  some  embowered  lane, 
you  are  arrested  by  the  delicious  odour  of  violets, 
those  sweetest  of  Flora's  children,  which  have  fur- 
nished so  many  pretty  allusions  to  the  poets,  and 
which  are  not  yet  exhausted :  they  are  like  true 
friends,  we  do  not  know  half  their  sweetness  till  they 
have  felt  the  sunshine  of  our  kindness :  and  again, 
they  are  like  the  pleasures  of  our  childhood,  the 
earliest  and  the  most  beautiful.  Now,  however,  they 
are  to  be  seen  in  all  their  glor}- — blue  and  white — 
modestly  peering  through  their  thick,  clustering 
leaves.      The  lark  is  carolling  in  the  blue  fields 


THE  PttE:.Iir3r.  81 

of  air ;  the  blackbird  and  thrash  are  again  shout- 
ing and  replying  to  each  other,  from  the  tops  of  the 
highest  trees.  As  you  pass  cottages,  they  have 
caught  the  happy  infection :  there  are  windows 
thrown  open,  and  doors  standing  ajar.  The  inha- 
bitants are  in  their  gardens,  some  clearing  away 
rubbish,  some  turning  up  the  light  and  fresh-smell- 
ing soil  amongst  the  tufts  of  snow-drops  and  rows 
of  bright  yellow  crocuses,  which  every  where 
abound ;  and  the  children,  ten  to  one,  are  peeping 
into  the  first  bird's-nest  of  the  season — the  hedge- 
sparrow's,  with  its  four  sea-green  eggs  snugly  but 
unwisely  built  in  the  pile  of  old  pea-rods. 

In  the  fields  labourers  are  plashing  and  trimming 
the  hedges,  and  in  all  directions  are  teams  at  plough. 
You  smell  the  wholesome,  and,  I  may  truly  say, 
aromatic  soil,  as  it  is  turned  up  to  the  sun,  brown  and 
rich,  the  whole  country  over.  It  is  deUghtful,  as  you 
pass  along  deep  hollow  lanes,  or  are  hidden  in  copses, 
to  hear  the  tinkling  gears  of  the  horses,  and  the 
clear  voices  of  the  lads  calling  to  them.  It  is  not 
less  pleasant  to  catch  the  busy  caw  of  the  rookery, 
and  the  first  meek  cry  of  the  young  lambs.  The 
hares  are  hopping  about  the  fields,  the  excitement 
of  the  season  overcoming  their  habitual  timidity. 
The  bees  are  revelling  in  the  yellovp  catkins  of  the 
sallow.  The  harmless  English  snake  is  seen  again 
curled  up,  hke  a  coil  of  rope,  wnth  its  head  in  the 
centre,  on  sunny,  green  banks.  The  woods,  though 
yet  unadorned  with  their  leafy  garniture,  are  beau- 
tiful to  look  on ; — they  seem  flushed  with  life. 
Their  boughs  are  of  a  clear  and  glossy  lead  colour, 
and  the  treetops  are  rich  with  the  vigorous  hues  of 
brown,  red,  and  purple ;  and,  if  you  plunge  into 
their  solitudes,  there  are  symptoms  of  revivification 
under  your  feet — the  springing  mercury'  and  green 


32 


THE  PREMIUM. 


blades  of  the  blue-bells — and  perhaps  above  you, 
the  early  nest  of  the  missel-thrush,  perched  between 
the  boughs  of  a  young  oak,  to  tinge  your  thoughts 
with  the  anticipation  of  summer.  These  are  morn- 
ings not  to  be  neglected  by  the  lover  of  nature,  and 
if  not  neglected,  then  not  forgotten :  for  they  w^ill 
stir  the  springs  of  memory,  and  make  us  live  over 
again,  times  and  seasons  that  we  cannot,  for  the 
pleasure  and  purity  of  our  spirits,  live  over  too  much. 

HOWITT. 


AUTUMN. 

Oh  !  there 's  a  beauty  in  the  dying  year ! 
'T  is  sweet,  at  quiet  eventide,  to  gaze 
Upon  the  fading  hills,  when  the  dun  haze 

Hangs  like  a  pall  above  old  Autumn's  bier. 

These  ancient  woods  !  how  beautiful  in  death  ! 
For,  see,  the  vivid  green  hath  left  the  leaf, 
And  brighter  hues  are  there  ;  yet  they  are  brief,— 

Their  pomp  will  vanish  at  the  cold  wind's  breath. 

There  is  a  breeze  amid  the  leaves  !  it  swells, 
Far  in  the  solemn  wood-paths,  like  the  peals 
Of  music  o'er  the  waters.     Hark  !  it  steals, 

Sweet,  as  the  distant  sound  of  evening  bells. 

It  is  the  voice  of  Autumn  ! — the  low  dirge 
Sung  mournfully  within  its  ruined  halls. 
It  stirs  the  fallen  leaves,  and  sadly  falls 

On  tlie  hushed  air,  like  whispers  from  the  surge. 

The  summer-birds  have  sought  a  sunnier  shore  ; — 
They  lingered  till  the  cold,  cold  wind  went  in 
And  withered  their  green  homes, — their  merry  din 

Is  mingling  with  the  rivulet's  song  no  more. 


THK   PIIEMIUM.  33 

Rich  flowers  have  perished  on  the  silent  earth 
Blossoms  of  valley  and  of  wood,  that  gave 
A  fragrance  to  tlie  wind,  have  found  a  grave 

Upon  the  scentless  turf  that  gave  them  birth. 

Pale,  faded  year  !  thy  dying  hour  hath  come  ! 
Oh  !  there  are  crowds,  that  with  a  joyous  brow 
Welcomed  thy  birth,  whose  mirthful  voices  now 

Are  hushed  in  the  long  silence  of  the  tomb  ! 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAF. 

There  is  no  vice  that  causes  more  calamities  in 
human  life,  than  the  int-emperate  passion  for  gam- 
bling. How  many  noble  and  ingenuous  persons  it 
hath  reduced  from  wealth  unto  poverty  ;  nay,  from 
honesty  to  dishonour,  and  by  still  descending  steps, 
into  the  gulf  of  perdition.  And  yet  how  prevalent 
it  is  in  all  capital  cities,  where  many  of  our  chiefest 
merchants,  and  courtiers  especially,  are  mere  pitiful 
slaves  of  fortune,  toiling  like  so  many  abject  turn- 
spits in  her  ignoble  wheel.  Such  a  man  is  worse 
off  than  a  poor  borrower,  for  he  is  at  the  moment- 
ary call  of  imperative  chance ;  or  rather  he  is  more 
wretched  than  a  very  beggar,  being  mocked  with 
an  appearance  of  wealth,  but  as  deceitful  as  if  it 
turned,  like  the  monies  in  the  old  Arabian  story, 
into  decaying  leaves. 

In  our  parent  city  of  Rome,  to  aggravate  her  mo- 
dern disgraces,  this  pestilent  vice  has  lately  fixed 
her  abode,  and  has  inflicted  many  deep  wounds  on 
the  fame  and  fortune  of  her  proudest  families.  A 
number  of  noble  youths  have  been  sucked  into  the 
ruinous  vortex,  some  of  them  being  degraded  at  last 
into  humble  retainers  upon  rich  men,  but  the  most 
C 


34  TH£  JPRLMIUJI. 

part  perishing  by  an  unnatural  catastrophe ;  and  if 
the  same  fate  did  not  befall  the  young  Marquis  dc 
Malaspini,  it  was  only  by  favour  of  a  circumstance 
which  is  not  likely  to  happen  a  second  time  for  any 
gamester. 

This  gentleman  came  into  a  handsome  re\'enue 
at  the  death  of  his  parents,  whereupon,  to  diisipate 
his  regrets,  he  travelled  abroad,  and  his  graceful 
manners  procured  him  a  distinguished  reception  at 
several  courts.  After  two  years  spent  in  this  man- 
ner, he  returned  to  Rome,  where  he  had  a  magnill- 
cent  palace  on  the  baiiks  of  the  Tiber,  and  which 
he  further  enriched  with  some  valuable  paintings 
and  sculptures  from  abroarl.  His  taste  in  these 
works  was  much  admired ;  and  his  friends  re- 
marked with  still  greater  satisfaction,  that  he  was 
untainted  by  the  courtly  vices  which  lie  must  have 
witnessed  in  his  travels.  It  only  remained  to  com- 
plete their  wishes,  that  he  should  fonn  a  matrimo- 
nial alliance  that  should  be  worthy  of  himself,  and 
he  Ecemcd  likely  to  fuUU  this  ho[)e  in  attaching 
himself  to  the  beautiful  Countess  of  jTaraviglia. 
She  was  herself  the  heiress  of  an  ancient  and  ho- 
nourable house  ;  so  that  the  match  was  regarded  with 
satisfaction  by  the  relations  on  both  sides,  and  espe- 
cially as  the  young  pair  were  mobt  tenderly  in  love 
with  each  other. 

For  certain  reasons,  however,  the  nuptials  were 
defened  for  a  time,  thus  affording  leisure  for  the 
crafty  machinations  of  the  devil,  who  delights,  above 
all  things,  to  cross  a  virtuous  and  happy  marriage. 
Accordingly,  he  did  not  fail  to  make  use  of  this  ju- 
dicious opportunity,  but  chose  for  his  instrument  the 
lady's  own  brother,  a  very  profligate,  and  a  game- 
ster, who  soon  fastened,  like  an  evil  genius,  on  the 
unlucky  Malaspini. 


It  was  a  dismal  shock  to  the  l-.idy,  when  she 
learned  the  nature  of  this  connexion,  which  Malas- 
pini  himself  discovered  to  her,  by  incautiously  drop- 
ping a  die  from  his  pocket  in  her  presence.  Slie 
immediately  endeavoured,  with  all  her  influence,  to 
reclaim  him  from  the  dreadful  passion  for  play, 
which  had  now  crept  over  him  like  a  moral  cancer, 
and  already  disputed  the  sovereignty  of  love  ;  nei- 
ther was  it  without  some  dreadful  struggles  of  re- 
morse on  his  own  part,  and  soma  usele^js  victories, 
that  he  at  last  gave  himself  to  such  desperate  habits, 
but  the  power  of  his  Mepliistophiles  prevailed,  and 
the  visits  ofMalaspini  to  the  lady  of  his  affections, 
became  still  less  frequent ;  he  repairing  instead  to 
those  nightly  resorts,  where  the  greater  portion  of 
his  estates  was  already  forfeited. 

At  length,  when  the  lady  had  not  seen  him  for 
some  days,  and  in  the  very  last  week  before  that 
which  had  been  appointed  for  her  marriage,  she  re- 
ceived a  desperate  letter  from  Malaspini,  declaring 
that  he  was  a  ruined  man,  in  fortune  and  hope ; 
and  that  at  the  cost  of  his  life,  even,  he  must  re- 
nounce her  hand  for  ever.  He  added,  that  if  his 
pride  would  let  him  even  propose  himself,  a  beggar 
as  he  was,  for  her  acceptance,  he  should  yet  despair 
too  much  of  her  pardon  to  make  such  an  offer ; 
whereas,  if  he  'could  have  read  the  heart  of  the 
unhappy  lady,  he  would  have  seen  that  she  still 
preferred  the  beggar  Malaspini,  to  the  richest  no- 
bleman in  the  popedom.  With  abundance  of  tears 
and  sighs  perusing  his  letter,  her  first  impulse  was 
to  assure  him  of  that  loving  truth ;  and  to  offer  her- 
self with  her  estates  to  him,  in  compensation  of 
the  spites  of  fortune ;  but  the  wretched  Malaspi- 
ni had  withdrawn  himself  no  one  knew  whither, 
and  fche  was  constrained   to  content  hereelf  with 


36  THE  PREMIUM. 

grieving  over  his  misfortunes,  and  purchasing  such 
parts  of  his  property  as  were  exposed  to  sale  by 
his  plunderers.  And  now  it  became  apparent 
what  a  villanous  part  his  betrayer  had  taken  ;  for 
having  thus  stripped  the  unfortunate  gentleman,  he 
now  aimed  to  rob  him  of  his  life  also,  that  his 
treacheries  might  remain  undiscovered.  To  this 
end  he  feigned  a  most  vehement  indignation  at  Ma- 
laspini's  neglect,  and  bad  faith,  as  he  termed  it,  to- 
wards his  sister ;  protesting  that  it  was  an  insult  to 
be  only  washed  out  with  his  blood ;  and  with  these 
expressions  he  sought  to  kill  him  at  any  advantage. 
And  no  doubt  he  would  have  become  a  murderer, 
as  well  as  a  dishonest  gamester,  if  Malaspini's  shame 
and  anguish,  had  not  drawn  him  out  of  the  way  ; 
for  he  had  hired  a  mean  lodging  in  the  suburbs, 
from  which  he  never  issued  but  at  dusk,  and  then 
only  to  wander  in  the  most  unfrequented  places. 

It  was  now  in  the  wane  of  Autumn,  when  some  of 
the  days  are  fine,  and  gorgeously  decorated  at  morn 
and  eve  by  the  rich  sun's  embroideries;  but  others 
are  dewy  and  dull,  with  cold  nipping  winds,  inspir- 
ing comfortless  fancies  and  thoughts  of  melancholy 
in  every  bosom.  In  such  a  dreary  hour,  Malaspini 
happened  to  walk  abroad,  and  avoiding  his  own 
squandered  estates,  which  it  was  not  easy  to  do  by 
reason  of  their  extent,  he  wandered  into  a  bye-place 
in  the  neighbourhood.  The  place  was  very  lonely 
and  desolate,  and  without  any  near  habitation  ;  its 
main  feature  especially  being  a  large  tree,  now 
stripped  bare  of  its  vernal  honours,  excepting  one 
dry,  yellow  leaf,  which  was  shaking  on  a  topmost 
bough  to  the  cold  evening  wind,  and  threatening  at 
every  moment  to  fall  to  the  damp,  dewy  earth.  Ma- 
laspini stopped  some  time  in  contemplation,  com- 
menting to  himself  the  desolate  tree,  and  drawing 


THE  premium:.  37 

many  apt  comparisons  between  its  nakedness  and 
his  own  beggarly  condition. 

"  Alas!  poor  bankrupt,"  says  he,  "thou  hast  been 
plucked  too,  like  me ;  but  yet  not  so  basely.  Thou 
hast  but  showered  thy  green  leaves  on  the  grateful 
earth,  which  in  another  season  will  repay  thee  with 
sap  and  sustenance ;  but  those  whom  I  have  fattened 
will  not  as  much  as  lend  again  to  my  living.  Thou 
wilt  thus  regain  all  thy  green  summer  wealth,  which 
I  shall  never  do ;  and  besides,  thou  art  still  better 
oif  than  I  am,  with  that  one  golden  leaf  to  cheer 
thee,  whereas,  I  have  been  stripped  even  of  my  last 
ducat !" 

With  these  and  many  more  similar  fancies  he 
continued  to  aggi'ieve  himself,  till  at  last,  being 
more  sad  than  usual,  his  thoughts  tended  unto 
death,  and  he  resolved,  still  watching  that  yellow 
leaf,  to  take  its  flight,  as  the  signal  for  his  own  de- 
parture. 

"  Chance,"  said  he,  "  hath  been  my  temporal 
ruin,  and  so  let  it  now  determine  for  me,  in  my 
last  cast  between  hfe  and  death,  which  is  all  that 
its  malice  hath  left  me." 

Thus,  in  his  extremity  he  still  risked  somewhat 
upon  fortune ;  and  verj'  shortly  the  leaf  being  torn 
away  by  a  sudden  blast,  it  made  two  or  three  flut- 
terings  to  and  fro,  and  at  last  settled  on  the  earth, 
at  about  a  hundred  paces  from  the  tree.  Malaspini 
interpreted  this  as  an  omen  that  he  ought  to  die  ; 
and  following  the  leaf  till  it  alighted,  he  fell  to  work 
on  the  same  spot  with  his  sword,  intending  to  scoop 
himself  a  sort  of  rude  hollow  for  a  grave.  He  found 
a  strange  gloomy  pleasure  in  this  fanciful  design, 
that  made  him  labour  very  earnestly  :  and  the  soil 
besides  being  loose  and  sandy,  he  had  soon  cleared 
away  about  a  foot  below  the  surface.     The  earth 


38  THE  PRF.MIU:«:. 

then  l)ccame  suddenly  more  obstinate,  and  trj-ing  it 
here  and  there  with  his  sword,  it  struck  against 
some  very  hard  substance  ;  whereupon,  digging  a 
little  further  down,  he  discovered  a  considerable 
treasure. 

There  were  coins  of  various  nations,  but  all  gold- 
en, in  this  petty  mine  ;  and  in  such  quantity  as  made 
Malaspini  doubt,  for  a  moment,  if  it  were  not  the 
mere  mintage  of  his  fancy.  Assuring  liimself,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  no  dream,  he  gave  many  thanks 
to  God  for  this  timely  providence  ;  notwithstanding, 
he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  to  deliberate  whether  it 
was  honest  to  avail  himself  of  the  money  ;  but  be- 
lieving, as  was  most  probable,  that  it  was  the  plun- 
der of  some  banditti,  he  was  reconciled  to  the  ap- 
propriation of  it  to  his  own  necessities. 

Loading  himself,  therefore,  with  as  much  gold  as  he 
could  conveniently  carry,  he  hastened  with  it  to  his 
humble  quarters  ;  and  by  making  two  or  three  more 
trips  in  the  course  of  the  night,  he  made  himself 
master  of  the  whole  treasure.  It  was  sufScient,  on 
being  reckoned,  to  maintain  him  in  comfort  for  the 
rest  of  his  hfe  ;  but  not  being  able  to  enjoy  it  in 
the  scene  of  his  humiliations,  he  resolved  to  reside 
abroad ;  and  embarking  in  an  English  vessel  at 
Naples,  he  was  carried  over  safely  to  London. 

It  is  held  a  deep  disgrace  amongst  our  Italian 
nobility,  for  a  gentleman  to  meddle  with  either  trade 
or  commerce  ;  and  yet,  as  we  behold,  they  will  con- 
descend to  retail  their  own  produce,  and  wine  espe- 
cially,— yea,  marry,  and  with  an  empty  barrel,  like 
any  vintner's  sign,  hung  out  at  their  stately  palaces. 
Malaspini  perhaps  disdained  from  the  first  these  il- 
liberal prejudices  ;  or  else  he  was  taught  to  renounce 
them,  by  the  example  of  the  London  merchants, 
whom  he  saw  in  that  great  mart  of  the  world,  en- 


THE  PHEMIUX.  3V 

grossing  the  universal  seas,  and  enjoying  tlie  power 
and  importance  of  princes,  merely  from  the  fmits 
of  their  traffic.  At  any  rate,  he  emharked  what  mo- 
ney he  possessed  in  various  mercantile  adventures, 
which  ended  so  profitably,  that  in  three  years  he 
had  regained  almost  as  large  a  fortune  as  he  had 
formerly  inherited.  He  then  speedily  returned  to 
his  native  country,  and  redeeming  his  paternal  es- 
tates, he  was  soon  in  a  worthy  condition  to  present 
himself  to  liis  beloved  countess,  who  was  still  single, 
and  cherished  him  with  all  a  woman's  devotedness 
in  her  constant  ati'ection.  They  were,  therefore,  be- 
fore long  united,  to  the  contentment  of  all  Rome; 
her  wicked  relation  having  been  slain  some  time 
before,  in  a  brawl  with  his  associates. 

As  for  the  fortunate  wind-fall,  which  had  so  be- 
friended him,  Malaspini  founded  with  it  a  noble 
hospital  for  orphans ;  and  for  this  reason,  that  it 
belonged  formerly  to  some  fatherless  children,  from 
whom  it  had  been  vdthheld  by  their  unnatural 
guardian.  This  wicked  man  it  was  who  had  binied 
the  money  in  the  sand  :  but  when  he  found  that  his 
treasure  was  stolen,  he  went  and  hanged  himself  on 
the  ver}'  tree  that  had  caused  its  discovery. 

HOOD. 


ODE. 

0  melancholy  moon, 
Queen  of  the  midnight,  though  thou  palest  away 

Far  in  the  dusky  west  to  vanish  soon 
Under  the  hills  that  catch  thy  waning  ray, 
Still  art  thou  beautiful  beyond  all  spheres, 
The  friend  of  griefi  and  confidant  of  tears 


40  THK  pRE^rirjr. 

Mine  earliest  friend  wert  thou  : 
My  boyhood's  passion  was  to  stretch  me  under 
The  locust  tree,  and,  through  the  checker'd 
bough, 
Watch  thy  far  pathway  in  the  clouds,  and  won- 
der 
At  thy  strange  loveliness,  and  wish  to  be 
The  nearest  star,  to  roam  the  heavens  with  thee. 

Youth  grew  ;  but  as  it  came, 
And  sadne^  with  it,  still,  with  joy,  I  stole 

To  gaze,  and   dream,  and  breathe  perchance 
the  name 
That  was  the  early  music  of  my  soul, — 
And  seem'd  upon  thy  pictured  disk  to  trace 
Remeraber'd  features  of  a  radiant  face. 

And  manhood,  though  it  bring 
A  winter  to  my  bosom,  cannot  turn 

Mine  eyes  from  thy  lone  loveliness ;  still  spring 
My  tears  to  meet  thee,  and  the  spirit  stem 
Falters,  in  secret,  with  the  ancient  thrill — 
The  boyish  yearning  to  be  with  thee  still. 

Would  it  were  so  ;  for  earth 
Grows  shadowy,  and  her  fairest  planets  fail ; 
And  her  sweet  chimes,  that  once  were  woke  to 
mirth 
Turn  to  a  moody  melody  of  wail 
And  through  her  stony  throngs  I  go  alone, 
Even  with  the  heart  I  cannot  turn  to  stone. 

Would  it  were  so ;  for  still 
Thou  art  mine  only  counsellor,  with  whom 

Mine  eyes  can  have  no  bitter  shame  to  fill. 
Nor  my  weak  lips  to  murmur  at  the  doom 
Of  solitude,  wliich  is  so  sad  and  sore, 
Weighing  like  lead  upon  my  bosom's  coie. 


THE  PKEMICM.  41 

A  boyish  thought,  and  weak  ; — 
shall  look  up  to  thee  from  the  deep  sea, 
And  in  the  land  of  palms,  and  on  the  peak 
Of  her  wild  hills,  still  turn  mine  eyes  to  thee  ; 
And  then  perhaps  lie  down  in  solemn  rest, 
With  naught  but  thy  pale  beams  upon  my  breast. 

Let  it  be  so  indeed — 
Earth  hath  her  peace  beneath  the  trampled  stone  : 
And  let  me  perish  where  no  heart  shall  bleed, 
And  naught,  save  passing  winds,  shall  make  my 
moan  ; 
No  tears,  save  night's,  to  wash  my  humble  shrine, 
And  watching  o'er  me,  no  pale  face  but  thine. 

DR.  BinD. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  BOTANY. 
CoxsiDERi>-G  the  beauty  and  the  usefulness  of 
trees  and  other  vegetables,  it  is,  at  first  sight,  rather 
singular  that  so  little  should  be  known  about  their 
physiology.  One  cause  is,  no  doubt,  the  difficulty 
of  the  subject  itself;  and  another  is  the  disposition 
that  we  have  to  localize  the  principle  of  life,  by  ac- 
counting some  parts  vital  and  others  not.  There 
are  great  difTerences  of  plants  ;  but  in  the  active 
parts  they  are  vital  all  over,  and  admit  of  much 
more  division  without  the  loss  of  vitality,  than  even 
those  animals  that  have  the  least  resemblance  to 
man.  Thus  we  have  far  more  command  over  them, 
and  can  turn  their  energies  more  to  our  wish.  We 
can  make  them  produce  leaves,  or  wood,  or  fruit, 
or  seeds,  according  as  we  consider  these  to  be  useful 
or  ornamental.  We  can  regulate  their  place,  and 
form,  and  magnitude  ;  we  can  so  far  blend  their 
colours  and  qualities;  and  it  is  in  their  changes  and 
varieties  that  we  find  the  grand  characteristics  of 


45  THE    PHE>IIU>f. 

the  year.  The  song:s  of  the  birds,  the  i>povtijigs  of 
the  quadrupeds,  and  all  the  other  phenomena  of 
animated  nature,  have  their  attractions ;  but  the 
vegetable  tribes  form  the  grand  kalendar  of  nature. 
The  green  sward  with  its  spottings  of  early  flowers, 
the  orchard  with  its  mantle  of  soft  pink  and  virgin 
white,  the  wood,  the  coppice,  and  the  hedge,  all 
coming  into  leaf;  these  are  the  charms  of  the  spring, 
— the  greenness,  the  vernaUty,  is  the  very  livery 
of  life,  the  colour  which  always  pleases  and  never 
fatigues  the  eye.  Among  the  animals,  too,  we 
meet  with  what  we  consider  as  instances  of  cruelty ; 
one  race  preys  upon  another,  and  many  are  canni- 
bals ;  but  we  meet  with  nothing  of  the  kind  among 
plants.  The  earth  and  the  air,  the  rain  and  the 
dew,  are  all  that  they  require  :  and  they  yield  up 
a  portion  of  their  substance  everj^  year  for  the  fer- 
tilizing of  the  soil,  at  the  same  time  that  they  feed 
the  whole  of  animated  nature,  directly,  or  through 
the  medium  of  some  other  part  of  itself. 

As  subjects  for  study,  we  have  nothing  equal  to 
them.  The  animals,  when  in  a  state  of  nature,  flee 
at  our  approach ;  we  see  them  only  by  snatches, 
and  therefore,  have  not  the  means  of  getting  a  con- 
tinuous history  of  them.  But  the  plant  stands  still, 
and  we  can  examine  it ;  can  watch  it  from  the  mo- 
ment that  it  is  a  seed,  till  its  energy  be  exhausted 
in  the  productions  of  milhons  ;  and  though  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  performs  its  functions  has  hitherto 
defied  our  philosophy,  we  have  still  enough  to  oc- 
cupy our  attention,  and  excite  our  admiration.  One 
of  the  most  valuable  properties  of  vegetables  is  their 
inflammability  ;  and  to  man,  in  a  savage  state,  they 
are  at  once  the  fuel  and  the  fire ;  furnish  him  witli 
that  which  is  his  pecuUar  characteristic,  and  pro- 
tect liim  from  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  and 


THE  pnE>iiu3r.  43 

fhe  night-attacks  of  those  animals  for  which,  in 
strength  and  swiftness,  he  is  no  match.  He  col- 
lects a  bundle  of  sticks,  rubs  one  against  another  till 
it  be  ignited,  the  whole  are  soon  in  a  blaze,  and  the 
result  is  both  light  and  safety.  Then  the  wonder- 
ful durability  of  some  of  the  species.  Vv'e  read  of 
beams  that  are  undecayed,  though  they  have  been 
in  the  service  of  man  for  more  than  a  thousaiid 
years  ;  and  the  great  chestnut  tree  at  Tamworth,  in 
Staffordshire,  is  reported  to  have  stood  from  the 
year  800,  to  the  year  17G2,  and  to  have  produced 
perfect  fruit  in  1759, — a  duration,  compared  to 
which,  that  of  any  animal  is  but  as  a  span. 

Vegetables  have  this  further  advantage,  that  they 
are  found  everj'where,  and  at  all  seasons ;  and 
therefore,  those  who  stud}^  them  may  have  constant 
mental  occupation ;  nor  is  there  any  one  capable  of 
observing  at  all,  that  m.ay  not,  by  that  study,  add 
something  to  the  common  stock  of  knowledge.  To 
what  an  extent  that  may  be  done,  can  be  so  far  un- 
derstood when  it  is  borne  in  mind,  that  the  cultiva- 
tion of  vegetables  reaches  beyond  the  record  even 
of  the  ancient  nations,  and  that  the  invention  is 
always  attributed  to  the  gods  ;  but  yet  while  there 
is  this  remote  antiquity,  the  field  for  study  must  be 
more  wide  and  productive  than  in  any  other  portion 
of  human  knowledge,  inasmuch  as  the  study  and 
culture  of  plants  have  received  more  improvement 
in  very  recent  times  than  any  other  branch  of  hu- 
man occupation  ;  and  that  within  the  last  fifty 
years,  more  has  been  added  to  our  knowledge  of 
plants  than  to  any  other  branch  of  our  knowledge. 

There  is  tliLs  farther  advantage,  that  the  love  of 
plants  calls  us  into  the  fields,  leads  us  to  the  place 
where  every  one  may  study  ;  and  then  when  we 
have  wearied  ourselves  with  the  scene,  \^'e  can  turn 


44  THE    PREMILX. 

to  the  inhabitants  ;  when  we  have  made  ourselves 
masters  of  all  that  can  be  known  about  the  tree — 
its  historj',  its  age,  its  uses,  we  are  still  able,  nay 
better  prepared,  for  knowing  what  are  the  living 
things  to  which  it  gives  food  and  shelter ;  and  there 
is  not  a  plant  which  does  not  aftbrd  this  variety  of 
nutrition  ;  the  flower  has  its  industrious  bees,  and 
its  fluttering  butterflies ;  the  bud  its  canker  worm ; 
the  root  its  grub  ;  aphides  load  the  twigs,  and  pro- 
ducing their  singular  races,  race  after  race,  all  fe- 
males, till  the  close  of  the  season,  absolutely  cover 
the  tender  extremities  of  the  twigs,  glaze  the  leaves 
over  with  their  honey  dew,  and  by  the  rapidity  of 
their  increase,  defy  the  host  of  spoilers  to  which 
they  are  exposed,  and  without  which,  small  as  they 
are,  they  would  destroy  the  whole  vegetation  of 
the  year  ;  even  the  soUtary  bush  has  its  bird,  and 
the  poor  solitary  in  the  remote  \'illage,  finds  com- 
panionship in  nature.  ajjok. 


WHAT  S  HALLOWED  GROUND. 
What  's  hallowed  ground  1     Hath  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ] 

That's    hallowed  ground — where,   mourned   and 

missed. 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed  ; — 
But  where  's  their  memory's  mansion  1  Is  't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers  1 
No  !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 


THE  pREjrirx.  45 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound  : 
The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed,  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  heaven  ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old  ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould, 

And  will  not  cool 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  1 
'T  is  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  : 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom  ; 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind, 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  saved  mankind — 

And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  1 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind. 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is  't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  1 
He  's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  suUies,  in  Heaven's  sight, 

The  sword  he  draws  : — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  1 

A  noble  cause ! 

Give  that :  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums !  and  rend  heaven's  reeking  spac« 


46  THK  PHilMlUM. 

The  colours  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer. 

Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 
Sliall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  ! — But  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal: 
The  cause  of  truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above  ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  peace  and  love  ! 

Peace,  Love — the  cherubim  that  join 

Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine — 

Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine. 

When  they  are  not ; 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot, 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august ! 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt, 
That  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chant. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man  ! 
Thy  temples — creeds  themselves  grow  wan ; 
But  there  's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 

Its  space  is  heaven  ! 
Its  roof  star-pictured,  Nature's  ceiling, 
W'here  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling. 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 


Fail"  Stars  !  are  not  your  beinj^s  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death,  your  worlds  obscure  1 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Ye  must  be  heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love  ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time  ; 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

What 's  hallowed  ground  ]    'Tis  what  gives  biith 

To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  ! 

Peace  !  Independence  !  Truth!  go  forth  ^ 

Earth's  compass  round ; 
And  your  high-priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground  ! 

ca:mpbell. 


THE  VENETIAN  BRIDALS. 

Venice,  like  the  fabled  goddess  of  beauty,  had 
spnmg  from  the  sea  ;  and  from  being  at  first  a  mere 
aiiscmblage  of  fishennen's  huts,  at  last  appeared 
more  like  one  of  the  sparkling  and  fantastic  fabrics 
which  we  read  of  in  books  of  chivalrv^  as  created  by 
the  waving  of  a  m.agician's  wand,  than  a  real  sub- 
stantial dwelling  for  ordinar}-  inhabitants.  If  the 
eye  was  gratified  by  the  various  styles  of  architecture 
— the  many-storied  houses,  with  their  gay  awnings 
and  verandahs — the  marble  churches,  bridges,  and 
palaces — the  ear  was  no  less  surprised  to  miss  the 
usual  noises  of  a  great  city.    No  streets  cchoc<l  wjlii 


AS  THE    PKEMlU:Nr. 

the  sound  of  rolling  chariot  or  trampling  horse — no 
trees  afforded  shelter  to  singing-birds  and  shade  to 
the  foot-passenger.  For  the  noise  of  wheels  and 
hoofs  was  exchanged  the  plashing  of  oars  and  the 
song  of  gondoliers.  The  only  horses  which  the 
Venetians  could  boast  were  those  moulded  in  brass 
by  the  famous  Lysippus  ;  the  only  place  of  general 
resort  where  they  could  take  exercise  was  the  Place 
of  St,  Mark,  sought  alike  by  those  in  pursuit  of 
business  or  pleasure. 

The  first  duke  or  doge  of  Venice  was  Faolo 
Anafeste,  elected  in  the  year  697  ;  a  man  singularly 
esteemed  by  his  fellow-citizens  for  his  public  and 
private  virtues.  The  second  doge  likewise  governed 
with  moderation  and  ability  ;  but  his  successor  was 
ambitious  to  increase  his  own  power  at  the  expense 
of  the  liberties  of  the  republic :  his  schemes  were 
discovered,  and  the  enraged  citizens  put  him  to 
death. 

From  this  time  the  Venetian  history  for  a  long 
period  presents  nothing  but  a  scene  of  confusion 
and  bloodshed  ;  the  doges  oppressing  the  people, 
the  people  murdering  or  banishing  their  doges. 
The  Venetians  were  alternately  engaged  in  civil 
commotions  or  naval  wars.  Nevertheless,  their 
trade  was  flourishing,  and  their  city  and  population 
rapidly  increasing. 

It  was  an  old  established  custom  for  the  nobility 
and  principal  citizens  of  Venice  to  celebrate  their 
marriages  on  the  same  day  of  the  year ;  viz.  that 
preceding  the  day  of  Purification.  On  this  occa- 
sion they  united  to  give  the  solemnity  all  the  splen- 
dour and  magnificence  in  their  power.  The  canals 
were  crowded  with  gondolas  conveying  friends 
of  the  bridefolks  richly  apparelled,  and  laden  with 
presents,  irora  all  parts  of  the  city.     The  balconies 


TSE    PIlEMIU3r.  49 

were  filled  with  sp-octators.  Ever}'  one  cnucavoiir- 
ed  to  increase  the  general  appearance  of  gayety  by 
the  elegance  and  costliness  of  his  dress.  Armour, 
or  offensive  weapons  of  any  kind,  would  have 
been  considered  an  insult:  they  were  laid  aside 
for  gowns  and  mantles  of  the  finest  silk  and  velvet, 
embroidered  with  gold  and  silver.  Strains  of  lively 
music  resounded  on  all  sides,  mingled  with  the 
joyful  ringing  of  bells ;  and  rich  carpets  and 
tapestries  depending  from  the  windows  heightened 
the  brilliancy  of  the  scene.  Every  face  shone  with 
smiles  ;  every  heart  beat  with  pleasurable  expec- 
tation. 

Such  was  the  spectacle  that  presented  itself  on 
the  Venetian  bridal  day  in  the  reign  of  doge  Can- 
diano  the  Third.  Ail  the  inhabitants  were  engaged 
either  in  the  wedding  procession,  or  as  spectators. 
The  brides,  glittering  v.'ilh  ornaments,  embarked, 
to  the  sound  of  soft  music,  in  the  stately  vessels 
which  were  to  convey  them  to  church  ;  their  rela- 
tions and  friends  followed,  carrying  the  bridal  gifts 
exposed  to  public  view,  while  the  air  resounded 
with  shouts  and  acclamations.  Unfortunately  for 
the  bridal  train,  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic  sea  were 
in  those  days  much  infested  by  the  pirates  of  Istria, 
who  often  descended  on  the  coast,  and  carried  off 
every  thing  of  value  that  they  could  find.  Hearing 
great  nev*-s  of  the  approaching  marriage-day,  it  had 
struck  the  corsairs  that  it  would  be  an  admirable 
opportunity  to  fall  upon  Venice,  and  while  the  citi- 
zens were  all  unarmed  and  unprepared,  to  seize 
upon  the  jewels  which  were  borne  in  the  proces- 
sion, and  carry  off  the  brides,  for  whom  they  might 
expect  to  obtain  an  immense  ransom. 

Accordingly,  they  sailed  over-night  to  a  small 
uninhabited  island  near  Venice,  and  there  lav  con- 
D 


so  TIIK    PHE>tIUM. 

cealed  till  the  procession  had  landed  at  the  church 
of  OHvolo  ;  when  suddenly  darting  from  their  am- 
bush, they  tore  the  shrieking  brides  from  their 
lovers,  seized  on  the  rich  presents,  and  put  to  sea 
with  their  captives  and  booty  ere  the  bewildered 
Venetians  could  persuade  themselves  that  the  whole 
was  not  a  dream. 

The  enraged  lovers  and  fathers  had  no  sooner 
collected  their  scattered  senses  than  they  flew  to 
the  doge,  who  had  been  an  amazed  spectator  of  the 
whole  transaction,  and  with  frantic  energy  besought 
him  to  allow  them  to  pursue  the  corsairs.  Candiano 
not  only  gave  his  immediate  consent,  but  prepared 
to  put  himself  at  their  head.  Then  there  was 
*'  arming  in  hot  haste," — mothers  and  wives  carry- 
ing weapons  to  and  fro,  and  with  tears  urging  their 
sons  and  husbands  to  the  pursuit.  Little  time  was 
necessary  for  their  equipment,  when  all  were  ani- 
mated by  one  common  purpose :  they  threw  them- 
selves into  their  vessels,  crowded  sail,  and  overtook 
the  pirates  in  the  lagunes  of  Caorlo.  A  dreadful 
contest  ensued  between  those  who  were  fighting 
for  all  that  was  to  them  most  valuable  in  life,  and 
opponents  who  could  expect  no  mercy.  The  pirates 
were  completely  defeated,  and  the  victorious  Vene- 
tians returned  in  triumph  with  their  brides.  Such 
a  wedding-day  was  not  likely  to  be  ever  forgotten 
by  those  who  had  been  concerned  in  it ;  and  it 
made  so  deep  an  impression  on  the  minds  of  the 
Venetian  ladies,  that  from  that  time  forth  they 
celebrated  its  anniversary  by  a  solemn  procession 
to  the  church  of  Olivolo.  MAXXi:yG. 


SOXXET. 

AYE.lhou  art  wt?k:ome — heaven's <ldicious breath! 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  m«ek,  aud  the  meek,  suns  grow 
brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunn}^  South  ! — Oh,  long'  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, — 
Like  to  a  good  old  age,  released  from  care, 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life,  like  thee,  'mid  bowers  and 

brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh  ; 

And  when  my  last  sand  tv«inkled  in  the  glass, 

Pass  sil-eatly  from  men,  as  tiiou  do6i  pass. 

Axojr* 


MGUXTAIN-S. 
Thkhe  is  a  charm  connected  with  mountains  so 
powerful,  that  the  merest  mention  of  them,  the  me- 
i-est  sketch  of  their  magnificent  features  kindles  the 
imagination,  and  carries  the  spirit  at  once  into  the 
bosom  of  their  enchanted  regions.  How  the  mind 
is  fiUed  with  Iheir  vast  soUtude !  how  the  inward 
eye  is  fixed  on  their  silent,  their  sublime,  their 
everlasting  peaks  !  How  our  heart  hounds  to  the 
music  of  their  solitary  cries — to  the  tinkle  of  their 
■gushing  liils,  to  the  sound  of  their  cataracts^  How 
inspiriting  are  the  odours  that  breathe  from  the  up- 
land turf,  from  the  rock-'hung  flower,  from  the  hoary 
-and  solemn  pine ;  how  h>cautiful  arc  thoae   lights 


b'Z  TUE    PREVIt,.5r. 

and  shadows  thrown  abroad,  and  that  fine,  transpa- 
rent haze  which  is  diiiused  over  the  valleys  and 
lower  slopes,  as  over  a  vast,  inimitable  picture. 

At  this  season  of  the  year  the  ascents  of  our  own 
mountains  are  become  most  practicable.  The  heat 
of  sumnier  has  dried  up  the  moisture  with  which 
winter  rains  saturate  the  spongy  turf  of  the  hol- 
lows ;  and  the  atmosphere,  clear  and  settled,  admits 
of  the  most  extensive  prospects.  Whoever  has  not 
ascended  our  mountains,  knows  little  of  the  beau- 
ties of  this  beautiful  island.  Whoever  has  not 
cUmbed  their  long  and  heathy  ascents,  and  seen 
the  trembling  mountain-flowers,  the  glowing  mosg, 
the  richly-tintod  lichens  at  his  feet;  and  scented 
the  fresh  arona  of  the  uncultivated  sod,  and  of  the 
spicy  shrubs ;  and  heard  the  bieat  of  the  Hock  across 
their  solitary  expanses,  and  the  wild  cry  of  the  moun- 
tain-plover, the  raven,  or  the  eagle ;  and  seen  the 
rich  and  russet  hues  of  distant  slopes  and  eminences, 
the  livid  gashes  of  ra^-ine3  and  precipices,  the  white 
glittering  line  of  falling  waters,  and  the  cloud  tu- 
muUuously  whirling  round  the  lofty  summit ;  and 
then  stood  panting  on  that  summit,  and  beheld  the 
clouds  alternately  gather  and  break  over  a  thou- 
sand giant  peaks  and  ridges  of  eAery  varied  hue, — 
but  all  silent  as  images  of  eternity  ;  and  cast  big 
gaze  over  lakes  and  forests,  and  smoking  towns, 
and  wide  lands  to  the  ver\-  ocean,  in  all  their  gleam- 
ing and  reposing  beauty,  knows  noliiing  of  the 
treasures  of  pictorial  wealth  wliich  his  own  country 
possesses. 

But  when  we  let  loose  the  imagination  from  even 
these  splendid  scenes,  and  give  it  fi-ee  charter  to 
range  through  the  far  more  glorious  ridges  of  con- 
tinental mountains,  through  Alps,  Apennines,  or 
Andes,  how  is  it  poss^ssctl  and  absorbed  by  all  the 


THK    PUEVaCM.  o3 

awfi;!  magnificence  of  llieir  scenery  and  character ! 
The  sky-ward  and    maccessible  pinnacles,  the 

Palaces  where  nature  thrones 
Sublimity  in  icy  halls! 

the  dark  Alpine  forests,  the  savage  rocks  and  preci- 
pices, the  fearful  and  unfathomable  chasms  filled 
with  tile  sound  of  ever-precipitaling  waters ;  the 
cloud,  the  silence,  the  avalanche,  the  cavernous 
gloom,  the  terrible  visitations  of  heaven's  concen- 
trated lightning,  darkness  and  thunder ;  or  the 
sweeter  features  of  living,  rushing  streams,  spicy 
odours  of  flower  and  shrub,  fre.sh  spirit-elating  bree- 
zes sounding  through  the  dark  pine  grove  ;  the  ever- 
varying  lights  and  shadows,  and  ajrial  hues ;  the 
wide  prospects,  and,  above  all,  the  simple  inhabi- 
tants. 

We  delight  to  think  of  the  people  of  mountain- 
ous regions ;  we  please  our  imaginations  w  ith 
their  picturesque  and  quirt  abodes ;  with  their 
peaceful,  secluded  lives,  striking  and  unvarying 
costumes,  and  piimitive  manners.  Vv'e  invo- 
luntarily give  to  the  mountaineer  heroic  and  ele- 
vated qualities.  He  lives  amongst  nol>le  objects, 
and  must  imbibe  some  of  their  nobility  ;  he  lives 
amongst  the  elements  of  poetry,  and  must  be  po- 
etical ;  he  lives  where  his  fellow-beings  are  far, 
far  separated  from  their  kind,  and  surrounded  hy 
the  sternness  and  the  perils  of  savage  nature  ;  his 
social  aucctions  must,  therefore,  be  proportionately 
concentrated,  his  hometies  lively  and  strong ;  but 
more  than  all,  he  lives  within  the  barriers,  the 
strongholds*  the  very  last  refuge  which  Nature  her- 
self has  reared  to  preser\'e  alive  liberty  in  the  earth, 
to  preserve  to  man  his  highest  hopes,  his  noblest 
emotions,  his  dearest  treasures,  his  faith,  his  free- 


54  THK  I'HEMU  >r. 

dom,  his  hearth,  and  home.  How  glorious  do  those 
inountain-ridgcs  appear  when  we  look  upon  them 
as  the  unconqueral)le  abodes  of  free  hearts  ;  as  the 
stern,  heaven-built  walls  from  which  the  few,  the 
feeble,  the  persecuted,  the  despised,  the  helpless 
child,  the  delicate  w^oman,  have  from  age  to  age,  in 
their  last  perils,  in  all  their  weaknesses  and  emer- 
gencies, when  power  and  cruelty  were  ready  to 
swallow  them  up,  looked  down,  and  beheld  the 
million  waves  of  despotism  break  at  their  feet : — 
have  seen  the  rage  of  murderous  armies,  and  ty- 
rants, the  blasting  spirit  of  ambition,  fanaticism^ 
and  crushing  domination  recoil  from  their  bases  in 
despair.  "  Thanks  be  to  God  for  mountains  !"  is 
often  the  exclamation  of  my  heart,  as  I  trace  the 
History  of  the  World.  From  age  to  age,  they  have 
been  the  last  friends  of  man.  In  a  thousand  ex- 
tremities they  have  saved  him.  AVhat  great  hearts 
have  throbbed  in  their  defiles  from  the  days  of 
Leonidas  to  those  of  Andreas  Hofer  !  What  lofty 
souls,  what  tender  hearts,  what  poor  and  perse- 
cuted creatures  have  they  sheltered  in  their  stony 
bosoms  from  the  weapons  and  tortures  of  their  fel- 
low men, 

Avenge,  O Lord,  thy  slau^hteretl  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold  ! 

was  the  burning  exclamation  of  Milton's  agonized 
and  inflignant  spirit,  as  he  beheld  those  sacred  bul- 
warks of  freedom  for  once  violated  by  the  disturb- 
ing demons  of  the  earth  ;  and  the  sound  of  his  fiery 
and  lamenting  appeal  to  Heaven  will  be  echoed  in 
every  generous  soul  to  the  end  of  time. 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  mountains!  The  variety 
which  they  impart  to  the  glorious  bosom  of  our 
planet  were  no  small  advantage  ;  the  beauty  which 


THE  PUKMIUM.  55 

they  spread  out  to  our  vision  in  their  woods  and 
waters  ;  their  crags  and  slopes,  their  clouds  and  at- 
mospheric hues  were  a  splendid  gift ;  the  sublimity 
which  they  pour  into  our  deepest  souls  from  their 
majestic  aspects;  the  poetr}-  which  breathes  from 
their  streams,  and  dells,  and  airy  heights,  from  the 
sweet  abodes,  the  garbs  and  manners  of  their  inha- 
bitants, the  songs  and  legends  which  have  awoke 
in  them,  were  a  proud  heritage  to  imaginative 
minds  ;  but  what  are  all  these  when  the  thought 
comes,  that  without  mountains  the  spirit  of  man 
must  have  bowed  to  the  brutal  and  the  base,  and 
probably  have  sunk  to  the  monotonous  level  of  the 
unvaried  plain. 

When  I  turn  my  eyes  upon  the  map  of  the  world, 
and  behold  how  wonderfully  the  countries  where 
our  fdith  was  nurtured,  where  our  liberties  were 
generated,  where  our  philosophy  and  literature,  the 
fountains  of  our  intellectual  grace  and  beauty  sprang 
up,  were  as  distinctly  walled  out  by  God's  hand 
with  mountain  ramparts  from  the  eruptions  and  in- 
terruptions of  barbarism,  as  if  at  the  especial  pi^ayer 
of  the  early  fathers  of  man's  destinies,  I  am  lost  in 
an  exulting  admiration.  Look  at  the  bold  barriers 
of  Palestine  !  see  how  the  infant  liberties  of  Greece 
were  sheltered  from  the  vast  tribes  of  the  uncivil- 
ized north  by  the  heights  of  Hsemus  and  Rhodope ! 
behold  how  the  Alps  describe  their  magnificent 
crescent  inclining  their  opposite  extremities  to  the 
Adriatic  and  Tyrrhine  Seas,  locldng  up  Italy  from 
the  Gallic  and  Teutonic  hordes  till  the  power  and 
spirit  of  Rome  had  reached  their  maturity,  and  she 
had  opened  the  wide  forest  of  Europe  to  the  light, 
spread  far  her  laws  and  language,  and  planted  the 
seeds  of  many  mighty  nations  ! 

Thanks  to  God  for  mountains !     Their  colossal 


56  THE  ruE?iiu->r. 

firmness  seems  almost  to  break  the  cuvient  of  time 
itself;  the  Geologist  in  them  searches  for  traces  of 
the  earlier  world,  and  it  is  there  too  that  man,  re- 
sisting the  revolutions  of  lower  regions,  retains, 
through  hmumcrable  years,  his  habits  and  his 
rights.  While  a  multitude  of  changes  has  remould- 
ed the  people  of  Europe,  while  languages  and 
laws  and  dynasties,  and  creeds,  have  passed  over 
it  like  shadows  over  the  landscape,  the  children  of 
the  Celt  and  the  Goth,  who  fled  to  the  mountains 
a  thousand  years  ago,  are  found  there  now,  and 
show  us  in  face  and  figure,  in  language  and  garb, 
what  their  fathers  were ;  show  us  a  fine  contrast 
with  the  modern  tribes  dwelling  below  and  around 
them  ;  and  show  us,  moreover,  how  adverse  is  the 
spirit  of  the  mountain  to  mutability,  and  tliat  there 
the  fiery  heart  of  Freedom  is  found  for  ever. 

HO  WITT. 


WEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  YOUTHFUL  DEAD. 

Weep  not  for  the  youthful  dead, 
Resting  in  their  peaceful  bed ! 
They  are  happier  than  we, 
Howsoever  blest  we  be. 

They  have  left  a  doubtful  scene, 
While  their  hearts  were  young  and  green, 
Ere  the  stain  of  guilt  was  deep ; — 
Wherefore,  wherefore  do  ye  weep] 

They  have  never  known  the  stings, 
Which  dissevered  fiiendship  brings  ; 
Envy,  Hatred,  Passion,  Pride, 
All  lie  buried  at  their  side. 


THE  PKEMlUjr.  57 

Far  across  the  slaipwreck  foam, 
They  have  found  a  peaceful  home, 
Where  the  blessed  spirits  keep  ; — 
V/herefore,  wherefore  should  ye  weep  1 

'T  is,  ye  say,  a  hea\-y  pain, 
Preying  on  the  heart  iii  vain, 
Thus  to  see  the  green  bud  froze, 
When  just  opening  to  a  rose. 

Yet  shall  Consolation  come. 
Stooping  from  her  starry  home, 
Bringing  dew  upon  her  wings, 
From  the  deep,  eternal  springs. 

He  had  just  begun  to  climb 
Up  the  weary  mount  of  Time , 
V/eep  not  his  untimely  end. 
If  he  sunk,  't  was  to  ascend. 

She  was  young,  and  soft,  and  fair, 
So  her  sister  seraphs  are  ! 
"Wherefore,  then,  should  Sorrow  bow? 
She  is  with  the  seraphs  now. 

Happy  they  who  die  in  youth. 
Ere  the  fountain  springs  of  truth 
Have  been  suUied  by  the  rains, 
Lea^■ing  dark  and  deadly  stains. 

Their  renown  is  with  the  brave. 

All  their  faults  are  in  the  grave, 

And  the  flowers,  that  round  them  bloom. 

Chase  the  darkness, — liide  the  gloom. 

AXOX. 


58  THE  pnEMiu>r. 


THE  RAIXY  SUNDAY. 


It  was  a  rainy  Sunday  in  the  gloomy  month  of 
November.  I  had  been  detained,  in  the  course  of 
a  journey  by  a  sUght  indisposition,  from  which  I 
was  recovering ;  but  I  was  still  feverish,  and  was 
obliged  to  keep  within  doors  all  day,  in  an  inn  of 
the  small  town  of  Derby.  A  wet  Sunday  in  a 
country  inn — whoever  has  had  the  luck  to  experi- 
ence one  can  alone  judge  of  my  situation.  The 
rain  pattered  against  the  casements ;  the  bells  tolled 
for  church  with  a  melancholy  sound.  I  went  to 
the  windows  in  quest  of  something  to  amuse  the 
eye ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  placed  com- 
pletely out  of  the  reach  of  all  amusement.  The 
windows  of  my  bed-room  looked  out  among  tiled 
roofs  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while  those  of  rny  sit- 
ting-room commanded  a  full  view  of  the  stable-yard. 
I  know  of  nothing  more  calculated  to  make  a  man 
sick  of  this  world,  than  a  stable-yard  on  a  rainy 
day.  The  place  was  littered  with  straw,  that  had 
been  kicked  about  by  travellers  and  stable-boys.  In 
one  comer  was  a  stagnant  pool  of  water  surrounding 
an  island  of  muck ;  there  were  several  half-drowned 
fowls,  crowded  together  under  a  cart,  among  which 
was  a  miserable  crest-fallen  cock,  drenched  out  of  all 
life  and  spirit,  his  drooping  tail  matted,  as  it  were, 
into  a  single  feather,  along  which  the  water  trickled 
from  his  back  ;  near  the  cart  was  a  half  dozing  cow, 
chewing  the  cud,  and  standing  patiently  to  be  rained 
on,  with  wreaths  of  vapour  rising  from  her  reeking 
hide  ;  a  wall  eyed  horse,  tired  of  the  loneliness  of 
the  stable,  was  poking  his  spectral  head  out  of  a 
window,  with  the  rain  dripping  on  it  from  the 
eaves;  an  unhappy  cur,  chained  to  a  dog-house 
hard  by,  uttered  something  every  now  and  then  be- 


THE  PREMIVM.  59 

tween  a  bark  and  a  yelp ;  a  drab  of  a  kitchen  wench 
tramped  backwards  and  forwards  through  the  yard 
in  pattens,  looking  as  sulky  as  the  weather  itself; 
everything,  in  short,  was  comfortless  and  forlorn, 
excepting  a  crew  of  hard-drinking  ducks,  assembled 
like  boon  companions  round  a  puddle,  and  making 
a  riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

I  was  lonely  and  listless,  and  wanted  amusement. 
My  room  soon  became  insupportable ;  I  abandoned 
it,  and  sought  what  is  technically  called  the  travel- 
lers' room.  This  is  a  public  room  set  apart  at  most 
inns  for  the  accommodation  of  a  class  of  wayfarers, 
called  travellers,  or  riders, — a  kind  of  commercial 
knights-errant,  who  are  incessantly  scouring  the 
kingdom  in  gigs,  on  horseback,  or  by  coach.  They 
are  the  only  successors  that  I  know  of,  at  the  present 
day,  to  the  knights-errant  of  yore.  They  lead  the 
same  kind  of  roving,  adventurous  life,  only  chang- 
ing the  lance  for  a  driving-whip,  the  buckler  for  a 
pattern-card,  and  the  coat  of  mail  for  an  upper 
Benjamin.  Instead  of  vindicating  the  charms  of 
peerless  beauty,  they  rove  about,  spreading  the 
fame  and  standing  of  some  substantinl  tradesman 
or  manufacturer,  and  are  ready  at  any  time  to 
bargain  in  his  name ;  it  being  the  fashion  now-a- 
days  to  trade  instead  of  fight  with  one  another.  As 
the  room  of  the  hostel,  in  the  good  old  fighting 
times,  would  be  hung  round  at  night  with  the  ar- 
mour of  way-worn  warriors — such  as  coats  of  mail, 
falchions  and  yawTiing  helmets ;  so  the  travellers' 
room  is  garnished  with  the  harnessing  of  their  suc- 
cessors,— with  box-coats,  whips  of  all  kinds,  spurs, 
gaiters,  and  oil-cloth  covered  hats. 

I  was  in  hopes  of  finding  some  of  these  worthies 
to  talk  with,  but  was  disappointed.  There  were, 
indeed,  two  or  three  in  the  room ;  but  I  could  make 


60  THK  PHKMJIM. 

nothing  of  thern.  One  was  just  finishing  his  break- 
fast, quaiTslling  vrith  his  bread  and  butter,  and  huf- 
Ihig  the  waiter  ;  another  buttoned  on  a  pair  of  gai- 
ters, with  many  execrations  at  Boot:?  for  not  having 
cleaned  his  shoes  well ;  a  third  sat  drumming  on  the 
table  with  his  fingers,  and  looking  at  the  rain  as 
it  streamed  down  the  window-glass  ;  they  ail  appear- 
ed infected  with  the  weather,  and  disappeared,  one 
after  the  other,  without  exchanging  a  word. 

I  sauntered  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  at 
the  people  picking  their  way  to  church,  with  clothes 
hoisted  mid-leg  high,  and  dripping  umbrellas.  The 
bell  ceased  to  toll,  and  the  streets  becanie  silent. 
I  then  amused  myself  with  watching  the  daugh- 
ters of  a  tradesman  opposite,  who,  being  confined 
to  the  house  for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sunday  finery, 
played  olT  their  charms  at  the  front  windows  to  fas- 
cinate the  chance  tenants  of  the  inn.  They  at 
length  were  sunmioned  away  by  a  Wgilant,  vuiegar- 
faccd  mother,  and  I  had  nothiiig  further  from  with- 
out to  amuse  me. 

What  was  I  to  do  to  pass  away  the  long-lived 
day  ?  I  was.  sadly  nervous  and  lonely  ;  and  every- 
thing about  an  inn  seems  calculated  to  make  a  dull 
day  ten  times  duller :  old  newspapers,  smelling  ol 
beer  and  tobacco  smoke,  and  which  I  had  already 
read  half  a  dozen  times ;  good-for-nothing  books, 
that  were  worse  than  rainy  weather.  I  bored  my- 
self to  death  with  an  old  volume  of  the  Lady's  Ma- 
gazine. I  read  all  the  common-place  names  of  am- 
bitious travellers  scrawled  on  the  panes  of  glass  ; 
the  eternal  families  of  the  Smiths,  and  the  Browns, 
and  the  Jacksons,  and  the  Johnsons,  and  all  the 
other  sons  ;  and  I  decyphered  several  scraps  of  fa- 
tiguing inn-window  poetry,  which  I  have  met  with 
in  ail  parts  of  tlie  world. 


THE   PllEMlUM.  61 

The  clay  continued  lowering  and  gloomy ;  the 
slovenly,  ragged,  spongy  clouds  drifted  heavily 
along ;  there  was  no  variety  even  in  the  rain  ;  it 
was  one  dull,  continued,  monotonous  patter — patter 
—patter,  except  that  now  and  then  I  v.-as  enlivened 
by  the  idea  of  a  brisk  shower,  from  the  rattling  of 
the  drops  upon  a  passing  umbrella. 

It  was  quite  relVesliing  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a 
hackneyed  phrase  of  the  day)  when,  in  the  course 
of  the  morning,  a  horn  blew,  and  a  stagrj-coacli 
whirled  through  the  street,  with  outside  pai?sengers 
stuck  all  over  it,  cowerinj  under  cotton  umbrellas, 
and  seethed  together,  and  reeking  with  the  steams 
of  wet  box-coat>,  and  upper  Bt-njainins.  The  round 
brought  out  from  their  lurking-places  a  crew  of  va- 
gabond boys,  and  vagabond  dogs,  and  the  carrosy- 
headed  hostler,  and  that  non-descript  animal  ycle])t 
Boots,  and  all  the  other  vagabond  race  that  infest 
the  purlieus  of  an  inn  ;  but  the  bustle  was  transient, 
the  coach  again  whirled  on  its  way,  and  boy  and  dog, 
and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk  back  again  to  their 
holes  ;  the  sti'cet  again  became  silent,  and  the  rain 
continued  to  rain  on.  In  fact  there  was  no  hope 
of  its  clearing  up  ;  the  barometer  pointed  to  rainy 
weather ;  mine  hostess'  tortoise-shell  cat  sat  by  the 
fire  washing  her  face,  and  rubbing  her  paws  over 
her  ears ;  and  on  referring  to  the  almanac,  I  found 
a  direful  prediction  stretching  from  the  top  of  the 
page  to  the  bottom,  thiough  the  whole  month,  "  Ex 
pect — much — rain — about — this — time." 

I  was  dreadfully  hipped.  The  hours  seemed  as 
if  they  would  never  creep  by.  The  very  ticking  of 
the  clock  became  irksome.  invi^iG. 


62  THt  TREMIUM. 


TO  IVATURE. 


"  Rura  mihi,  el  rigui  placeant  in  vallibus  amnc8  ; 
Flumina  amem,  sylvasque,  inglorius!" 

Great  daughter  of  the  Sire  Supreme ! 

In  whose  reflective  charms  we  see, 
Unscathed,  the  mitigated  beam 

Of  viewless  Deity. 

O,  lead  me,  Nature,  to  thy  shade ! 

Far  fiom  Ufe's  varsing  cares  and  fears  *, 
Atfections  spum'd  and  hopes  betray'd, 

And  naught  unchanged,  but  tears  : 

And  guide  me  on,  through  sun  and  storm, 
With  thine  immortal  steps  to  range ; 

In  variation,  uniform ; 
Immutable  in  change. 

Oh  !  teach  me,  on  the  sea-beat  liill, 
Or  by  the  mountain  torrent's  roar, 

Or  in  the  midnight  forest  still. 
Thy  great  and  awful  lore  ! 

Nor  less,  beside  the  calm  clear  sea, 

Or,  in  the  leafy  cool  reclined, 
With  thine  own  greenwood  minstrelsy 

Restore  a  wearied  mind  :— 

And  grant  my  soul  a  bliss  to  own 
Beyond  earth's  mightiest  to  bestow, 

Which  love  himself  might  give  alone, 
If  love  be  yet  below. 

Oh !  I  have  loved  thee  from  a  child 

And  sure,  on  childhood's  rapturous  hour, 

Thine  eye  of  loveliness  hath  smiled, 
With  most  approving  power ; — 


THK  PRE311L'M. 

For  in  that  season  bright  and  sweet 
Roams  the  blest  spirit  pure  and  free, 

Ere  woman's  art,  or  man's  deceit, 
Hath  stol'n  a  thought  from  thee. 

And  I  would  be  thy  child  again. 
Careless,  and  innocent,  and  still : 

Oh !  snatch  me  from  mine  own  wild  reign 
To  heed  a  holier  will ! 

Oh  !  sadly  is  the  soul  unblest, 

That  ne'er  the  sacred  joys  hath  known, 
Of  those  who  in  thy  temple  rest 

Majestically  lone  ! 

And  smit  with  a  celestial  love, 
In  secresy  converse  with  thee. 

And  hear  thee  bring  them  from  above 
Thy  wondrous  history  ! 

How,  when  the  great  Omnific  word 
Through  the  far  halls  of  Chaos  rang, 

And  life  the  dark  cold  billows  stirr'd, 
Thy  charms  to  order  sprang — 

Forth  danced,  thy  genial  steps  beneath, 
Herbage  and  flower  ;  to  weave  thy  pall, 

Campania  brought  her  painted  wreath  ; 
Her  roseate  treasures,  Gaul. 

Recount  thy  Sire's  unbounded  power, 
Recount  his  unexhausted  love, 

Who  sent  thee,  from  this  cloudy  hour, 
The  shadows  to  remove — 

And  teach  me,  in  thy  still  recess. 
To  search  a  clearer  page  than  thine. 

Where  Mercy,  Wisdom,  Faithfulness, 
Illumine  every  line  ! 


64  TUK  puE-Mir^r. 

So  when  I  cease  on  thee  to  gaze, 
May  I  thine  Author's  glor}'  sec, 

In  realms  whose  voice  shall  chant  his  praise. 
When  thou  no  more  shalt  be  ! 

AJfOy. 


THE  PERFECTION  OF  NATURE. 

We  boast  of  our  manufactories  and  their  produc- 
tions :  of  our  rocks  flowing  in  streams  of  iron  and 
brass  ;  our  aged  mountains  ground  into  porcelain  ; 
the  sea-weed  and  the  sand  of  our  shores  becoming 
glass ;  our  dust  and  rubbish  being  molten  into  stone  : 
we  boast  of  these  and  very  many  operations.  And, 
comparing  them  with  the  labours  of  other  men,  we 
may  boast  of  them  ;  they  are  unrivalled  under  the 
circumstances,  under  any  circumstances  :  but  when 
we  compare  these  processes  and  productions  with 
those  of  nature,  they  are  really  nothing  in  compari- 
son ;  and  the  machine  or  implement,  to  the  contri- 
ver of  which  we  erect  a  statue,  is  a  mere  bungle 
compared  with  the  least  and  simplest  of  these.  In 
the  very  best  machines  of  art  there  is  always  a  weak 
part,  one  that  is  loaded  with  the  rest,  and  wears  out 
long  before  them  ;  but  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind 
in  nature,  for  every  organ  that  we  find  in  her  pro- 
ductions is,  when  we  understand  it,  the  very  best 
for  the  accomplishment  of  the  pui-pose  that  it  serves: 
there  is  nothing  bungUng  or  unskilful,  and  nothing 
defective  or  redundant.  Each  comes,  unseen  and 
unbidden,  in  the  very  form,  of  the  very  consistency, 
and  at  the  very  time  that  it  is  wanted  ;  and  when 
the  use  of  it  ceases,  it  decays ;  but  even  in  its  decay 
it  is  not  lost,  for  the  moment  that  it  has  answered 
its  purpose  as  part  of  one  production,  it  is  changed 


THE  PREMIUM.  65 

and  decomposed  by  a  new  power  and  becomes  part 
of  another.     Size  or  shape  is  no  obstacle,  and  that 
which  to  our  art  w^ould  be  a  physical  impossibility, 
hinders  not  a  jot  the  operations  of  nature.  Gravitation 
is  nothing,  and  within  those  limits  which  are  found 
in  the  average  of  natural  circumstances,  heat  is  no- 
thing.    If  it  be  necessary  that  a  plant  should  grow 
upwards,  or  that  an  animal  should  run  with  its 
back  downwards,  there  is  instantly  an  apparatus  by 
which  that  is  accomplished.     It  is  the  same  with 
regard  to  the  media  in  which  they  exist.  One  walks 
on  the  surface  of  the  earth  and  browzes  the  herb- 
age under  it ;   and  where  that  is  the  case  we  find 
the  neck,  head,  and  mouth  the  way  best  constructed 
for  answering  these  purposes.      Another  roams  in 
places  where  there  is  no  vegetation  upon  the  ground, 
and  in  it  we  find  as  perfect  an  adaptation  for  finding 
its  food  above  it.    A  third  courses  its  prey  along  the 
earth,  and  we  find  it  endowed  with  all  the  appara- 
tus of  rapid  and  prolonged  motion.     A  fourth  feeds 
upon  creatures  that  can  escape  from  it,  either  by 
flying  into   the  air  or  creeping  into  holes  in  the 
earth,  and  it  is  so  constructed  that  it  can  steal  softly 
onward  till  it  be  near  its  prey,  and  then  spring  upon 
it  with  so  much  force  as  to  cripple  it  by  the  blow. 
It   would   be  easy  to   continue  this  enumeration 
through  many  volumes,  for  there  is  not  a  situation 
or  a  purpose  that  the  most  fertile  or  the  most  fan- 
tastic imagination  can  picture,  that  has  not  an  adapt- 
ation or  an  instrument  in  nature ;  and  all  art   is 
merely  imitation,  and  very  clumsy  imitation,  of 
that  which  nature  effects  as  an  effortless  and  natu- 
ral consequence  of  the  previous  states  of  those  sub- 
stances upon  or  among  which  the  phenomena  take 

P'^-^®«  BRITISH  NATURALIST, 

E 


66  THE  rUEMiXjM, 

THE  MUSEUM  OF  NATURE. 
We  go  to  museums  and  bazaars,  and  we  WOTi^eT 
at  their  contents }  and  that  man  should  be  so  formed 
as  to  understand  and  construct  those  things,  is  the 
grand  marvel,  the  glory  of  natural  history ;  but  the 
blade  of  grass  on  which  we  tread,  the  worm  on 
which  we  trample,  or  the  little  fly  that  annoys  us  with 
his  buzzing  sound  and  its  tickling  proboscis,  is  infi- 
nitely more  curious,  far  more  fraught  with  informa- 
tion, than  all  the  museums  of  art  that  ever  were 
collected.  Creation  is  a  self-operating,  a  self-con- 
structing, and  in  so  far  as  man  is  concerned,  a  self- 
contem"plating  museum.  Other  museums,  however 
numerous,  and  ingenious,  and  rare  may  be  the  sub- 
jects collected,  have  no  mutual  relation, — the  one 
contributes  in  no  degree  to  the  other  ^  but  in  the 
museum  of  nature,  though  the  parts  be  innumera- 
ble, the  machine  is  but  one,  and  ccrntaining  or  con- 
tained, there  is  such  a  mutual  relation  and  depen- 
dence that,  if  one  is  destroyed,  others  Tmist  perish 
along  with  it ;  and,  if  a  new  one  appears,  it  comes 
not  alone.  Depress  but  a  mountain  for  a  few  yards, 
and  you  lose  some  Alpine  plant,  possibly  too  small 
for  tlie  microscope ;  turn  but  the  course  of  a  river, 
and  many  nations  perish  in  the  dried  channel  j 
empty  even  a  small  lake,  and  more  life  is  lost  than 
in  the  wars  of  a  Gengis  Khan,  or  a  Napoleon  ;  roof 
out  a  tree,  and  you  destroy  myriads ;  pull  but  a 
leaf,  and  there  may  be  on  it  the  gernis  of  ten  thou- 
sand lives,  all  of  which  would  be  active  and  on  the 
wing  before  the  season  were  over  :  touch  but  a  bit 
of  rotten  wood  or  a  heap  of  dust,  and  the  chance 
is  that  you  disturb  the  habitation  of  something  that  is 
alive.  On  the  other  hand,  form  a  pond  of  the  most 
limpid  water,  and  one  annual  visit  of  the  sun  will 
stock  it  with  aquatic  plants  and  aquatic  animals  ; 


THE  FREMILM.  67 

SOW  but  an  unwonted  plant  and  you  xvlll  find  it 
taken  possession  of  by  an  unwonted  inhabitant. 

Thus  the  grand  principle  to  which  all  the  glo-^ 
ries  of  the  summer  are  owing,  literally,  and  in  its 
material  substance,  "  walketh  in  darkness."  And 
how  can  it  be  otherwise  ]  Those  glories  that  are 
around  us  in  all  the  luxuriance  of  the  summer 
beauty,  are  the  museum  of  "  the  living  God  ;"  ex- 
tended and  free  as  that  beneficence  with  which  he 
breathed  into  man  the  breath  of  life — of  contem* 
plation,  and  reflection,  and  sent  him  into  the  midst 
of  this  mighty  and  marvellous  creation,  to  learn  to 
wonder  and  to  worship. 

And  who,  to  whom  thought  is  given,  would  so 
contemn  his  Maker,  or  so  injure  himself,  as  to  be 
amid  all  this,  and  yet  let  the  summer  sun  go  down 
upon  him  in  a  state  of  ignorance  !  aye,  who  would 
not  spring  to  it  at  the  gray  dawn  of  the  summer 
morning,  while  the  grass  on  the  hedge  is  all  in 
gems,  and  the  mountain  is  veiled  in  its  fleecy  man- 
lie !  Who  would  not  hasten  to  witness  an  awa* 
king  world,  to  see  all  nature  coming  forth  from  her 
slumber,  and  joying  to  meet  the  vicegerent  of  her 
Maker  !  And  just  at  that  time — just  in  the  wane 
of  that  momentary  repose  which,  in  a  northern 
country,  one  cannot  call  night — you  may  witness 
some  creatures  upon  which  the  sun  never  shines, 
some  tiny  flies  coming  out  of  their  pupar  cases, 
which  are  all  destined  to  die  before  the  sun,  which 
is  now  dissolving  the  ascending  clouds  over  you, 
appears  in  the  horizon.  By  the  pool  or  the  Ijrook, 
too,  you  will  find  the  gnat,  having  forgotten  her 
song  with  which  she  wearied  the  night,  and  her 
thirst  for  blood,  Vv^hich  is  probably  given  to  her  as  a 
stimulant  for  the  last  and  grand  eflbrt  of  her  life, 
perched  on  a  floating  straw,  or  leaf,  or  a  bit  of 


68  THE  pnEjiiL>r. 

duckweed,  and  playing  the  boat  builder  with  un- 
taught, and,  therefore,  inimitable  skill,  and  a  perse- 
verance even  to  the  death.  That  little  colony  which 
she  commits  to  the  waters,  and  which  is  a  true  life 
boat,  as  it  is  full  of  life,  and  yet  will  neither  sink 
nor  be  wetted,  is  at  once  her  legacy  and  her  monu- 
ment ;  and  when  it  is  completed,  she  merely  flut- 
ters through  the  air  for  a  few  feet,  drops  lifeless 
upon  the  water,  and  unites  with  that  mass  of  mat- 
ter out  of  which  germs  arc  to  elaborate  their  com- 
ing forms.  It  is  a  singular  fact  in  the  natural  his- 
tory of  insects,  and  it  seems  so  common  to  them 
all,  and  so  restricted  to  them  and  those  plants  that 
we  call  annual,  that  one  reproduction  should  be  the 
whole  purpose  of  their  lives ;  and  that  if  this  be 
prevented,  their  Uves  may  be  prolonged  indefinitely, 
and  greatly  beyond  the  natural  period.  So  that, 
in  the  most  trifling  things,  we  see  that  it  is  an  ema- 
nation of  Almighty  power  by  which  creation  works ; 
and  that,  for  the  accomplishment  of  her  end,  she 
can,  in  that  which  as  a  whole,  is  but  as  a  grain 
of  dust,  contend  with  time  as  determinedly  as  if  it 
were  of  giant  Uneaments. 

BHITISU  KATtTRALIST. 


THE  NEW  MOON. 

Whex,  as  the  garish  day  is  done, 
Heaven  burns  with  the  descended  sun, 

'Tis  passing  s%veet  to  mark, 
Amid  the  flush  of  crimson  hght, 
The  new  moon's  modest  bow  grow  bright 

As  earth  and  sky  grow  dark. 

Few  are  the  hearts  too  cold  to  feel 
A  thrill  of  gladness  o'er  them  steal, 


TH£    PKEMIUX.  69 

When  first  the  wandering  eye 
Sees  faintly,  in  the  evening  blaze, 
That  glimmering  curve  of  tender  rays 

Just  planted  in  the  sky. 
The  sight  of  that  young  crescent  brings 
Thoughts  of  all  fair  and  youthful  things — 

The  hopes  of  early  years  ; 
And  childhood's  purity  and  grace, 
And  joys  that,  like  a  rainbow,  chase 

The  passing  shower  of  tears. 
The  captive  yields  him  to  the  dream 
Of  freedom,  when  that  virgin  beam 

Comes  out  upon  the  air  ; 
And  painfully  the  sick  man  tries 
To  fix  his  dim  and  burning  eyes 

On  the  soft  promise  there. 

Most  welcome  to  the  lover's  sight 
Glitters  that  pure,  emerging  light ; 

For  prattling  poets  say. 
That  sweetest  is  the  lovers'  walk, 
And  tenderest  is  their  murmured  talk. 

Beneath  its  gentle  ray. 

And  there  do  graver  men  behold 
A  type  of  errors,  loved  of  old. 

Forsaken  and  forgiven ; 
And  thoughts  and  wishes  not  of  earth, 
Just  opening  in  their  early  birth, 

Like  that  new  light  in  heaven. 

BHTAIfT. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

JoAXXA  Baillie  holds  that  rank  amongst  our 
elder  modern  authors,  and  her  poetry  is  so  con- 


70  THE  PREMIUM. 

nected  with  that  reawakening  of  our  Uterature 
which  took  place  about  the  commencement  of  the 
present  century,  that  whatever  she  writes,  how- 
ever sUght,  or  however  unequal  to  the  works  which 
made  her  fame,  has  a  peculiar  claim  to  respectful 
attention.  Of  Joanna  Baillie's  intellectual  strength, 
of  her  profound  knowledge  of  the  vi'orkings  of 
passion,  rendered  more  extraordinary'-  by  the  pla- 
cidity with  which  she  herself  delineates  them — of 
Joanna  Baillie's  genius  and  language,  which  are 
both  so  essentially  old-English,  deep,  sound,  vigour- 
ous,  unfeigned,  and  unadulterated — we  are  proud 
to  express  our  admiration.  It  would  afford  a  sub- 
ject for  a  long  and  not  uninteresting  disquisition, 
to  point  out  the  striking  difterence  in  the  mind 
and  writings  of  the  literary  women  of  thirty  and 
forty  years  ago,  and  the  literary  women  of  the 
present  time :  those  who  have  not  perused  their 
writings  in  connection,  will  hardly  believe  how 
great  is  the  difference ;  what  a  commentary  the 
perusal  affords  on  the  entire  change  that  has  ob- 
tained in  habits,  manners,  feelings,  education, 
tastes,  and  hfe  !  Amongst  the  elders — with  Joanna 
Baillie  at  their  head,  as  regards  mind — the  dis- 
tinguishing features  are  nerve,  simplicity,  vigour, 
continuity,  unambitious  earnestness,  and  good 
English,  We  find  also  elaborate  and  skilfully- 
developed  plots.  Amongst  our  distinguished  wo- 
men of  later  date,  we  find  accomplishment,  grace, 
brilliancy,  sentiment,  scenery  poetically  sketched, 
and  character  ably  handled ;  talent  in  all  shapes 
and  ways,  but  not  so  much  that  can  claim  the 
name  of  genius.  There  is  nothing  of  what  we 
have  called  continuity.  Writing  Uttle  but  detached 
tales  or  novels,  which,  however  clever,  are  only 
volumes  of  episodes,  separate  scenes,  and  strik- 


THE  TTL'Z-ytrVTt,  71 

iug  characters,  most  of  them  unconnected  with 
the  main  business  of  the  book — it  is  as  sketchers, 
whether  for  vivacity  or  pathos,  nature  or  art;  as 
eketchej's,  whether  of  the  country,  the  town,  or 
the  heart,  of  hfe  or  of  manners,  that  our  gifted 
women  are  now  chiefly  distinguished.  In  the 
female  poetry  too  of  the  present  day,  fascinating 
tenderness,  brilUancy  of  fancy,  and  beauty  of  feel 
ing,  stand  in  the  place  of  sustained  loftiness  of 
imagination,  and  compact  artist-like  diction.  Our 
elder  literary  women  were,  in  the  spirit  of  their 
intellect,  more  essentially  masculine;  our  younger 
ones  are  integrally  feminine — women  of  fashion- 
able as  well  as  studious  life,  women  generally,  who 
not  only  vsTite  books  but  abound  in  elegant  accom- 
plishments. 

We  have  not,  and  are  not  likely  to  have  at 
present,  another  Mary  Wolstencroft,  (we  merely 
speak  of  her  as  having  exhibited  grasp  of  mind,) 
another  Mrs.  Inchbald,  another  Mrs.  Radcliffe — 
Joanna  Bail  lie  is  their  only  representative;  adding, 
to  the  power  of  mind  which  they  possessed,  th^ 
dignified  play  of  fancy,  that  amphtude  of  calm, 
bold  thought,  and  that  "  accomplishment  of  verse** 
which  they  possessed  not.  Modern  imaginative 
literature  in  England  owes  much  to  her  "  Plays 
on  the  Passions ;"  perhaps  more  than  to  any  other 
publication  except  "  Percy's  Reliques ;"  at  all 
events,  our  greatest  poets,  who  were  young  when 
her  plays  appeared,  have  nearly  all  borne  testimo- 
ny to  the  advantage  and  delight  with  which  they 
perused  them.  With  all  this,  the  name  of  Joanna 
Baillie  is  not  buzzed  and  blazoned  about  as  very 
inferior  names  are;  her  works  do  not  attain  the 
honour  of  calf  and  gold  in  libraries  where  inferior 
works  shine ;  poetical  readers  of  strong  sensibility 


73 


THE    PXlEMlU^r- 


and  uncultivated  taste  do  not  dote  upon  "  Basil," 
or  quote  from  "  Ethwald  ;"  and  we  never,  by  any 
chance,  saw  a  line  of  hers  transcribed  in  an  album  I 
One  or  two  of  her  Shaksperian  snatches  of  song 
have  been  set  to  music  ;  but,  (to  quote  the  words 
of  an  able  critic,)  "The  celebrity  of  Joanna 
Baillie  has  been  of  a  most  peculiar  nature ;  her 
fame  has  had  about  it  a  peculiar  puritj\  It  has 
been  the  unparticipated  treasure  of  the  world  of 
taste  and  intellect."  We  know  that  with  this 
illustnous  authoress  there  is  a  noble  carelessness 
of  praise,  partly  consequent  on  her  years,  her 
standing  in  society,  and  her  having  simply  written 
at  the  instigation  of  her  own  genius ;  obeying  the 
voice  from  the  shrine,  and  not  the  command  of  the 
outer-court  worshippers :  but  still,  ive  feel  vexed 
to  see  women  of  later  date,  and,  however  gifted, 
every  way  inferior  to  Joanna  Baillie,  written  about' 
and  likenessed,  and  lithographed,  before  her— the 
senior  and  superior  of  all.  ssov. 


THE  LILY. 

[Addressed  to  a  Young  Lady  on  her  entrance  into  life] 
Floweh  of  light !  forget  thy  birth, 
Daughter  of  the  sordid  earth 
Lift  the  beauty  of  thine  eye 
To  the  blue  etherial  sky. 
While  thy  graceful  buds  unfold 
Silver  petals  starred  with  gold, 
Let  the  bee  among  thy  bells 
Rifle  their  ambrosial  cells, 
And  the  nimble  pinioned  air 
Waft  thy  breath  to  heaven,  like  prayer ; 


THE  PBE3HUM.  73 

Cloud  and  sun  alternate  shed 
Gloom  or  glory  round  thy  head ; 
Morn  impearl  thy  leaves  with  dews, 
Evening  lend  them  rosy  hues, 
Morn  with  snow-white  splendour  bless, 
Night  with  glowwonn  jewels  dress  ; 
Thus  fulfil  thy  summer-day, 
Spring  and  flourish  and  decay  ; 
Live  a  life  of  fragrance — then 
Disappear — to  rise  again, 
When  thy  sisters  of  the  vale 
Welcome  back  the  nightingale. 

So  may  she  whose  name  I  write. 
Be  herself  a  flower  of  light, 
Live  a  life  of  innocence, 
Die, — to  be  transported  hence 
To  that  Garden  in  the  skies, 
Where  the  Lily  never  dies. 

JAMES  MOSTGOMERT. 


ENGLISH  AUTHORS. 


It  is  amusing  to  imagine  what  a  host  of  pens 
are  at  this  moment  in  motion,  in  sundry  places  of 
this  little  island !  In  splendid  Ubraries,  furnished 
with  every  bodily  comfort,  and  everj^  Uterary  and 
scientific  resource,  where  the  noble  or  popular  au- 
thor fills  the  sheet  which  the  smile  of  the  bibUopole 
and  reader  awaits,  and  almost  anticipates  ;  in  naked 
and  ghastly  garrets  where  the  "  poor-de\-il-author" 
scrawls  with  numbed  fingers  and  a  shivering  frame, 
what  will  be  coldly  received,  and  as  quickly  for- 
gotten as  himself ;  in  pleasant  boudoirs,  at  rosewood 
desks,  where  lady-fingers  pen  lady-lays ;  in  ten 
thousand  nooks  and  recesses  the  pile  of  books  is 


74  THE  PREMirM. 

growing,  under  which,  shelves,  booksellers  and  rea- 
ders, shall  groan,  ere  many  months  elapse.  Ano- 
ther season  shall  come  round,  and  all  these  leaves, 
like  those  of  the  forest,  shall  be  swept  away,  leaving 
only  those  of  a  few  hardy  laurels  untouched.  But 
let  no  one  lament  them,  or  think  that  all  this  "  la- 
bour under  the  sun,"  has  been  in  vain.  Literary 
tradesmen  have  been  indulged  in  speculation ;  critics 
have  been  employed  ;  and  authors  have  enjoyed  the 
excitement  of  hope,  the  enthusiasm  of  composition, 
the  glow  of  fancied  achievement  And  all  is  not  lost ; 

The  following  year  another  race  supplies, 
They  fall  successive,  and  successive  rise. 

HO  WITT. 


A  HIGHLAND  ANECDOTE. 

The  same  course  of  reflection  which  led  me  to 
transmit  to  you  the  account  of  the  death  of  an  an- 
cient borderer,  induces  me  to  add  the  particulars  of 
a  singular  incident,  aiTording  a  point  which  seems 
highly  qualified  to  be  illustrated  by  the  pencil.  It 
was  suggested  by  the  spirited  engra\-ing  of  the 
Gored  Huntsman,  which  adorned  the  first  number 
of  your  work,*  and  perhaps  bears  too  close  a  resem- 
blance to  the  character  of  that  print  to  admit  of 
your  choosing  it  as  a  subject  for  another.  Of  this 
you  are  the  only  competent  judge. 

The  story  is  an  old,  but  not  an  ancient  one ;  the 
actor  and  sufferer  was  not  a  very  aged  man,  when 
I  heard  the  anecdote  in  my  early  youth.  Duncan, 
for  so  I  shall  call  him,  had  been  engaged  in  the  aflfair 
of  1746,  with  others  of  his  class,  and  was  supposed, 
by  many,  to  have  been  an  accomplice,  if  not  the 
principal  actor  in  a  certain  tragic  affair,  which  made 
*  This  article  was  written  for  the  Keepsake. 


THE  PHEXirM.  75 

much  noise  a  good  many  years  after  the  rebeUion. 
I  am  content  with  indicating  this,  in  order  to  give 
some  idea  of  the  man's  character,  which  was  bold, 
fierce,  and  enterprising.  Traces  of  this  natural  dis- 
position still  remained  in  Duncan's  very  good  fea- 
tures, and  in  his  keen  gray  eye.  But  the  limbs,  like 
those  of  the  aged  borderer  in  my  former  tale,  had 
become  unable  to  serve  the  purposes  and  obey  the 
dictates  of  his  inclination.  On  the  one  side  of  his 
body  he  retained  the  proportions  and  firmness  of  an 
active  mountaineer ;  on  the  other  he  was  a  disabled 
cripple,  scarcely  able  to  limp  along  the  streets.  The 
cause  which  reduced  him  to  this  state  of  infirmity 
was  singular. 

Twenty  years  or  more  before  I  knew  Duncan,  he 
assisted  his  brothers  in  forming  a  large  grazing  in 
the  Highlands,  comprehending  an  extensive  range 
of  mountain  and  forest  land,  morass,  lake  and  pre- 
cipice. It  chanced  that  a  sheep  or  goat  was  missed 
from  the  flocks,  and  Duncan,  not  satisfied  with  des- 
patching his  shepherds  in  one  direction,  went  him- 
self in  quest  of  the  fugitive  in  another. 

In  the  course  of  his  researches,  he  was  induced 
to  ascend  a  small  and  narrow  path,  leading  to  the 
top  of  a  high  precipice.  Dangerous  as  it  was  at 
first,  the  road  became  doubly  so  as  he  advanced.  It 
was  not  much  more  than  two  feet  broad,  so  rugged 
and  difficult,  and  at  the  same  time  so  terrible,  that 
it  would  have  been  impracticable  to  any  but  the 
light  step  and  steady  brain  of  a  Highlander.  The 
precipice  on  the  right  rose  hke  a  w^all,  and  on  the 
left  sunk  to  a  depth  which  it  was  giddy  to  look 
down  upon ;  but  Duncan  passed  cheerfully  on, 
now  whistUng  the  Gathering  of  his  Clan,  now 
taking  heed  to  his  footsteps,  when  the  difliculties 
of  the  path  required  caution. 


76  THE  rREMIU.-M. 

In  this  manner  he  had  more  than  half  ascended 
the  precipice,  when  in  midway,  and  it  might  almost 
be  said,  in  middle  air,  he  encountered  a  buck  of  the 
red-deer  species,  running  down  the  clifi'  by  the 
same  path  in  an  opposite  direction.  If  Duncan 
had  had  a  gun,  no  rencontre  could  have  been  more 
agreeable ;  but  as  he  had  not  this  advantage  over 
the  denizen  of  the  wilderness,  the  meeting  was  in 
the  highest  degree  unwelcome.  Neither  party  had 
the  power  of  retreating,  for  the  stag  had  not  room 
to  turn  himself  in  the  narrow  path,  and  if  Duncan 
had  turned  his  back  to  go  down,  he  knew  enough 
of  the  creature's  habits  to  be  certain  that  he  would 
"Vush  upon  him  while  engaged  in  the  difficulty  of 
the  retreat.  They  stood,  therefore,  perfectly  still, 
and  looked  at  each  other  in  mutual  embarrassment 
for  some  space. 

At  length  the  deer,  which  was  of  the  largest  size, 
began  to  lower  his  antlers,  as  they  do  when  they 
are  brought  to  bay,  and  are  preparing  to  rush  upon 
hound  and  huntsman.  Duncan  saw  the  danger  of 
a  conflict  in  which  he  must  probably  come  by 
the  worst,  and  as  a  last  resource  stretched  himself 
on  the  little  ledge  of  rock  which  he  occupied,  and 
thus  awaited  the  resolution  which  the  deer  should 
take,  not  making  the  least  motion,  for  fear  of  alarm- 
ing the  wild  and  suspicious  animal.  They  re- 
mained in  this  posture  for  three  or  four  hours,  in 
the  midst  of  a  rock  which  would  have  suited  the 
pencil  of  Salvator,  and  which  afforded  barely  room 
enough  for  the  man  and  the  stag,  opposed  to  each 
other  in  this  extraordinary  manner. 

At  length  the  buck  seemed  to  take  the  resolution 
of  passing  over  the  obstacles  which  lay  in  his  path, 
and  with  this  purpose  approached  towards  Duncan 
very  slowly,  and  with  excessive  caution.     When 


THE  PREMICX.  77 

he  came  close  to  the  Highlander,  he  stooped  down 
as  if  to  examine  him  more  closely,  when  the 
untameable  love  of  sport,  peculiar  to  his  country, 
began  to  overcome  Duncan's  fears.  Seeing  the 
animal  proceed  so  gently,  he  totally  forgot  the 
dangers  of  his  position,  and  with  one  hand  seized 
the  deer's  horns,  whilst  with  the  other  he  drew  his 
dirk.  But  in  the  same  instant  the  buck  bounded 
over  the  precipice,  canying  the  Highlander  along 
with  him.  They  went  thus  down  upwards  of  a 
hundred  feet,  and  were  found  the  next  morning  in 
the  spot  where  they  fell.  Fortune,  who  does  not 
always  regard  retributive  justice  in  her  dispensa- 
tions, ordered  that  the  deer  should  fall  underneath, 
and  be  killed  upon  the  spot,  while  Duncan  escaped 
with  his  life,  but  with  the  fracture  of  a  leg,  an  arm, 
and  three  ribs.  In  this  state  he  was  lying  on  the 
carcass  of  the  deer,  and  the  injuries  which  he  had 
received  rendered  him  for  the  remainder  of  his  life 
the  cripple  I  have  described.  I  never  could  approve 
of  Duncan's  conduct  towards  the  deer  in  a  moral 
point  of  view,  (although,  as  the  man  in  the  play 
said,  he  was  my  friend)  but  the  temptation  of  a  hart 
of  grease,  offering  as  it  were,  his  throat  to  the  knife, 
would  have  subdued  the  virtue  of  almost  any  deer 
stalker.  Whether  the  anecdote  is  worth  recording, 
or  deserving  of  illustration,  remains  for  your  con- 
sideration. I  have  given  you  the  story  exactly  as 
I  recollect  it.  scott. 


THE  BELL  OF  ST.  REGIS. 

Whex  Canada  was  in  possession  of  the  French, 

a  Catholic  priest  named  Father  Nicholas,  having 

assembled  a  considerable  number  of  the   Indians 

whom  he  had  converted,  settled  them  in  the  village 


Y8  tllE    Plt£MlttM. 

which  is  now  called  St.  Regis,  on  the  banks  of  the 
St.  Lawrence.  The  situation  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  on  that  noble  river,  and  the  village  at  thid 
day  the  most  picturesque  in  the  country.  The 
houses,  high  roof  and  of  a  French  appearance,  are 
scattered  round  the  semicircle  of  a  little  bay,  and  on 
a  projecting  headland  stands  the  church,  with  it3 
steeple  glittering  with  a  vivacity  inconceivable  by 
those  who  have  not  seen  the  brilliancy  of  the  tin 
roofs  of  Canada  contrasted  in  the  sunshine  with 
the  dark  woods. 

This  little  church  is  celebrated  for  the  legend  of 
its  bell. 

When  it  was  erected,  and  the  steeple  completed, 
father  Nicholas  took  occasion,  in  one  of  his  ser- 
mons, to  inform  his  simple  flock  that  a  bell  was  as 
necessary  to  a  steeple  as  a  priest  is  to  a  church, 
and  exhorted  them,  therefore,  to  collect  as  many 
furs  as  would  enable  him  to  procure  one  from 
France.  The  Indians  were  not  sloths  in  the  per- 
formance of  this  pious  duty.  Two  bales  were  speedi- 
ly collected  and  shipped  for  Havre  de  Grace,  and  in 
due  time  the  worthy  ecclesiastic  was  informed  that 
the  bell  was  purchased  and  put  on  board  the  Grafid 
j\fonarque,  bound  for  Quebec. 

It  happened  that  this  took  place  during  one  of 
those  wars  which  the  French  and  English  are  na- 
turally in  the  habit  of  waging  against  one  another, 
and  the  Grand  J\ionarque,  in  consequence,  never 
reached  her  destination.  She  was  taken  by  a  New- 
England  privateer  and  carried  into  Salem,  where 
the  ship  and  cargo  were  condemned  as  prize,  and 
sold  for  the  captors.  The  bell  was  bought  for  the 
town  of  Deerfield  oh  the  Connecticut  river,  where 
a  church  had  been  recently  built,  to  which  that  great 
preacher,  the  Rev.  John  Williams,  was  appointed. 


THE    Ptt£5flt/3t*  79 

With  much  labour,  it  was  carried  to  the  village; 
and  duly  elevated  in  the  belfry. 

When  Father  Nicholas  heard  of  this  misfortune, 
he  called  his  flock  together  and  told  them  of  the 
purgatorial  condition  of  the  bell  in  the  hands  of  the 
heretics,  and  what  a  laudable  enterprise  it  would  be 
to  redeem  it. 

This  preaching  was,  within  its  sphere,  as  inspir- 
ing as  that  of  the  hermit  Peter.  The  Indians  lament" 
ed  to  one  another  the  deplorable  unbaptized  state  of 
the  bell.  Of  the  bell  itself  they  had  no  very  clear 
idea ;  but  they  knew  that  Father  Nicholas  said 
mass  and  preached  in  the  church,  and  they  under- 
stood the  bell  was  to  perform  some  analogous  ser- 
vice in  the  steeple.  Their  wonted  activity  in  the 
chase  was  at  an  end;  they  sat  in  groups  on  the 
margin  of  the  river,  communing  on  the  calamity 
which  had  befallen  the  bell ;  and  some  of  thera 
roamed  alone,  ruminating  on  the  means  of  rescuing 
it.  The  squaws,  who  had  been  informed  that  its 
voice  would  be  heard  farther  than  the  roaring  of 
the  rapids,  and  that  it  was  more  musical  than  the 
call  of  the  whip-poor-will  in  the  evening,  moved 
about  in  silence  and  dejection.  All  were  melan- 
choly, and  finely  touched  with  a  holy  enthusiasm ; 
many  fasted,  and  some  voluntarily  subjected  them- 
selves to  severe  penances,  to  procure  relief  for  the 
captive,  or  mitigation  of  its  sufferings. 

At  last  the  day  of  deHverance  drew  near- 

The  Marquis  de  Vaudrieul,  the  governor  of  Cana- 
da, resolved  to  send  an  expedition  against  the  Bri- 
tish colonies  of  Massachusetts  and  New  Hampshire : 
the  command  was  given  to  Major  Hertel  de  Rou- 
ville  :  and  one  of  the  priests  belonging  to  the  Je- 
suit's College  at  Quebec  informed  Father  Nicholas, 
by  a  pious  voyageur,  of  the   proposed  incursion. 


80  TttK    PREMIUM. 

The  Indians  were  imnaediately  assembled  in  the 
church ;  the  voyageur  was  elevated  in  the  midst  of 
the  congregation,  and  Father  Nicholas,  in  a  solemn 
speech,  pointed  him  out  to  their  veneration  as  a 
messenger  of  glad  tidings.  He  then  told  them  of 
the  warlike  preparations  at  Quebec,  and  urged  them 
to  join  the  expedition.  At  the  conclusion,  the  whole 
audience  rose,  giving  the  weir- whoop  ;  then  simulta- 
neously retiring  to  their  houses,  they  began  to  paint 
themselves  with  their  most  terrible  colours  for  battle, 
and,  as  if  animated  by  one  will  at  their  council  fire, 
they  resolved  to  join  the  expedition. 

It  was  in  the  depth  of  winter  when  they  set  out 
to  unite  themselves  with  De  Rouville's  party  at  the 
fort  of  Chambly.  Father  Nicholas,  with  a  tall  staff 
and  a  cross  on  the  top  of  it,  headed  them ;  and,  as 
they  marched  oil,  their  wives  and  children,  in  imiiu- 
tion  of  the  h^mns  vihich  animated  the; departures  of 
the  first  crusaders  imder  the  command  of  Godfrey 
de  Boulogne,  chanted  a  sacred  song  which  the  holy 
father  had  especially  taught  them  for  the  occasion. 

They  arrived  at  Chambly,  after  a  journey  of  in- 
credible fatigue,  as  the  French  soldiers  were  mount- 
ing their  sleighs  to  proceed  to  Lake  Champlain.  The 
Indians  followed  in  the  track  of  the  sleighs,  with  the 
perseverance  peculiar  to  their  character.  Father  Ni- 
cholas, to  be  the  more  able  to  do  his  duty  when  it 
might  be  required,  rode  on  a  sleigh  with  De  Rouville. 

In  this  order  and  array,  the  Indians,  far  behind, 
followed  in  silence,  until  the  whole  part}-  had  ren- 
dezvoused on  the  borders  of  Lake  Champlain,  which, 
being  frozen,  and  the  snow  but  thinly  upon  it,  was 
chosen  for  their  route.  Warmed  in  their  imagina- 
tions with  the  unhappy  captivity  of  the  bell,  the  In- 
dians plodded  solemnly  their  weary  way  ;  no  symp- 
tom of  regret,  of  fatigue,  or  of  apprehension,  relaxed 


TBE  PnEMltJM.  81 

their  steady  countenances ;  they  saw  with  equal  in- 
difference the  black  and  white  interminalde  forest  on 
the  shore,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  dread  and  dreary 
desert  of  the  snov/y  ice  of  the  lake,  on  the  other. 

The  French  soldiers  began  to  suffer  extremely 
from  the  toil  of  wading  through  the  snow,  and 
beheld  with  admiration  and  envy  the  facility  with 
which  the  Indians,  in  their  snow  shoes,  moved  over 
the  surface.  No  contrast  could  be  greater  than  the 
patience  of  Father  Nicholas's  proselytes  and  the  ir- 
ritability of  the  Frenchmen. 

When  they  reached  the  spot  on  which  the  lively 
and  pretty  town  of  Burlington  now  stands,  a  general 
halt  was  ordered,  that  the  necessary  arrangements 
might  be  made  to  penetrate  the  forest  towards  the 
settled  parts  of  Massachusetts.  In  starting  from 
this  point,  Father  Nicholas  was  left  to  bring  up  Ids 
division,  and  De  Rouville  led  his  own  with  a  com- 
pass in  his  hand,  taking  the  direction  of  Deerfield. 
Nothing  that  had  been  yet  suffered  was  equal  to  the 
hardships  endured  in  that  march.  Day  after  day 
the  Frenchmen  went  forward  with  indefatigable 
bravery, — a  heroic  contrast  to  the  panics  of  their 
countrymen  in  the  Russian  snow-storms  of  latter 
times.  But  they  were  loquacious;  and  the  rough- 
ness of  their  course  and  the  entangling  molestation 
which  they  encountered  from  the  underwood,  pro- 
voked their  maledictions  and  excited  their  gesticula- 
tions. The  conduct  of  the  Indians  was  far  different : 
animated  with  holy  zeal,  their  constitutional  taci- 
turnity had  something  dignified — even  sublime,  in 
its  sternness.  No  murmur  escaped  them ;  their 
knowledge  of  travelling  the  woods  instructed  them 
to  avoid  many  of  the  annoyances  which  called  forth 
the  pestes  and  sacres  of  their  not  less  brave  but 
more  vociferous  companions. 
F 


83  THE  PREMIUM. 

Long  before  the  party  had  reached  their  destina- 
tion, Father  Nicholas  was  sick  of  his  crusade  ;  the 
labour  of  threading  the  forest  had  lacerated  his  feet, 
and  the  recoiling  boughs  had,  from  time  to  time,  by 
his  own  inadvertency  in  following  too  closely  behind 
his  companions,  sorely  blained,  even  to  excoriation, 
his  cheeks.  Still  he  felt  that  he  was  engaged  in  a 
sanctified  adventure ;  he  recalled  to  mind  the  mar- 
tyrdoms of  the  saints  and  the  persecutions  of  the  fa- 
thers, and  the  glory  that  would  redound  to  himself 
in  all  after  ages,  from  the  redemption  of  the  bell. 

On  the  evening  of  the  29th  of  February,  1704, 
the  expedition  arrived  within  two  miles  of  Deerfield, 
without  having  been  discovered.  De  Eouville  or- 
dered his  men  to  halt,  rest,  and  refresh  themselves 
until  midnight,  at  which  hour  he  gave  orders  that 
the  village  should  be  attacked. 

The  surface  of  the  snow  was  frozen  and  crackled 
beneath  the  tread.  With  great  sagacity,  to  deceive 
the  English  garrison,  De  Rouville  directed,  that  in 
advancing  to  the  assault,  his  men  should  frequently 
pause,  and  then  rush  for  a  short  time  rapidly  forward. 
By  this  ingenious  precaution,  the  sentinels  in  the 
town  were  led  to  imagine  that  the  sound  came  from 
the  irregular  rustle  of  the  wmd  through  the  laden 
branches  of  the  snowy  forest ;  but  an  alarm  was  at 
last  given,  and  a  terrible  conflict  took  place  in  the 
streets.  The  French  fought  with  their  accustomed 
spirit,  and  the  Indians  with  their  characteristic  for- 
titude. The  garrison  was  dispersed,  the  town  was 
taken,  and  the  buildings  set  on  lire. 

At  daybreak  all  the  Indians,  although  greatly 
exhausted  by  the  fatigue  of  the  night,  waited  in  a 
body,  and  requested  the  holy  father  to  conduct  them 
to  the  bell,  that  they  might  perform  their  homages 
and  testify  their  veneration  for  it.   Father  IVicholas 


THE  PRE>»irM,  83 

was  not  a  little  disconcerted  at  this  solemn  request, 
and  De  Rouville,  with  many  of  the  Frenchmen, 
who  were  witnesses,  laughed  at  it  most  unright- 
eously. But  the  father  was  not  entirely  discomtited. 
As  the  Indians  had  never  heard  a  bell  before,  he 
obtained  one  of  the  soldiers  from  De  Rouville,  and 
despatched  him  to  ring  it.  The  sound,  in  the  si- 
lence of  the  frosty  dawn  and  the  still  woods,  rose 
loud  and  deep  ;  it  was,  to  the  simple  ears  of  the 
Indians,  as  the  voice  of  an  oracle ;  they  trembled, 
and  were  filled  with  wonder  and  awe. 

The  bell  was  then  taken  from  the  belfn,^,  and 
fastened  to  a  beam  with  a  cross-bar  at  each  end,  to 
enable  it  to  be  carried  by  four  men.  In  this  way 
the  Indians  proceeded  with  it  homewards,  exulting 
in  the  deliverance  of  the  "miraculous  organ."  But 
it  was  soon  found  too  heavy  for  the  uneven  track 
they  had  to  retrace,  and,  in  consequence,  when  they 
reached  their  starting  point,  on  the  shore  of  Lake 
Ohamplain,  they  buried  it,  with  many  benedictions 
from  Father  iS'icholas,  until  they  could  come  with 
proper  means  to  carry  it  away. 

As  soon  as  the  ice  was  broken  up.  Father  Nicho- 
las assembled  them  again  in  the  church,  and,  having 
prdcured  a  yoke  of  oxen,  they  proceeded  to  bring  in 
the  bell.  In  the  meantime  all  the  squaws  and  pa- 
pooses had  been  informed  of  its  marvellous  powers 
and  capacities,  and  the  arrival  of  it  was  looked  to  as 
one  of  the  greatest  events  "  in  the  womb  of  time.'' 
jVor  did  it  prove  far  short  of  their  anticipations. 
One  evening,  while  they  were  talking  and  commun- 
ing together,  a  mighty  sound  was  heard  approach- 
ing in  the  woods  ;  it  rose  louder  and  louder ;  they 
listened,  they  wondered,  and  began  to  shout  and 
cry,  "  It  is  the  bell." 

It  was  so.    Presently  the  oxen,  surrounded  by  the 


S4  THE    PREMir:tf, 

Indians,  were  seen  advancing  from  the  woods ;  the 
heam  was  laid  across  their  shoulders,  and,  as  the 
hell  swung  between  them,  it  sounded  wide  and  far^ 
On  the  top  of  the  beam  a  rude  seat  was  erected,  on 
which  sat  Father  Nicholas,  the  most  triumphant  of 
mortal  men,  adorned  with  a  wreath  round  liis  tem- 
ples ;  the  oxen,  too,  were  ornamented  with  garlands 
of  flowers.  In  this  triumphal  array,  in  the  calm  of 
a  beautiful  evening,  when  the  leaves  were  still  and 
green,  and  while  the  roar  of  Le  longue  Saulte  rapids 
softened  by  distance,  rose  like  the  hum  of  a  pagan 
multitude  rejoicing  in  the  restoration  of  an  idol, 
they  approached  the  village. 

The  bell,  in  due  season,  was  elevated  to  its  place 
in  the  steeple,  and,  at  the  wonted  hours  of  matins 
and  vespers,  it  still  cheers  with  its  clear  and  swell- 
ing voice  the  solemn  woods  and  the  majestic  St, 
Lawrence.  galt. 


NATURE'S  GIFTS. 

I  CA2T  find  comfort  in  the  words  and  looks 
Of  simple  hearts  and  gentle  souls  ;  and  I 

Can  find  companionship  in  ancient  books, 
When  lonely  on  the  grassy  hills  I  lie, 
Uivler  the  shadow  of  the  tranquil  sky  ; 

I  can  find  music  in  the  rushing  brooks. 

Or  in  the  songs  which  dwell  among  the  trees. 
And  come  in  snatches  on  the  summer  breeze. 

I  can  find  treasure  in  the  leafy  showers 

Which  in  the  merry  autumn-time  will  fall ; 

And  I  can  find  strong  love  in  buds  and  flowers, 

And  beauty  in  the  moonlight's  silent  hours. 

There  's  nothing  nature  gives  can  fail  to  please. 

For  there  's  a  common  joy  pervading  all. 


THE  PRE.WICM.  85 

THE  BEACON- LIGHT. 
Daiik:5'ess  was  deep'ning  o'er  the  seas. 

And  still  the  hulk  drove  on  ; 
No  sail  to  answer  to  the  breeze, 

Her  masts  and  cordage  gone  : 
Gloomy  and  drear  her  course  of  fear. 

Each  looked  but  for  a  grave, 
When  full  in  sight,  the  beacon-light 

Came  streaming  o'er  the  wave  ! 

Then  wildly  rose  the  gladd'ning  shout 

Of  all  that  hardy  crew — 
Boldly  they  put  the  helm  about. 

And  through  the  surf  they  flew  ; 
Storm  was  forgot,  toil  heeded  not. 

And  loud  the  cheer  they  gave, 
As  full  in  sight,  the  beacon-Ught 

Came  streaming  o'er  the  wave ! 

And  gaily  oft  the  tale  they  told, 

When  they  were  safe  on  shore, 
How  hearts  had  sunk,  and  hope  grown  cold, 

Amid  the  billows'  roar ; 
That  not  a  star  had  shone  afar 

By  its  pale  beam  to  save, 
When  full  in  sight,  the  beacon-light 

Came  streaming  o'er  the  wave  ! 

AXON. 


EARLY  LIFE  OF  AUDUBON. 

[Described  by  himself] 
"  I  RECEIVED  Ufe  and  hght  in  the  New  World. 
When  I  had  hardly  yet  learned  to  walk,  and  to  ar- 
ticulate those  first  words  always  so  endearuig  to 
parents,  the  productions  of  Nature  that  lay  spread 


86  THE  rREMIUJr. 

all  around,  were  constantly  pointed  cut  to  me. 
They  soon  became  my  playmates ;  and  before  my 
ideas  were  sufficiently  formed  to  enable  me  to  esti- 
mate the  dillerence  between  the  azure  tints  of  the 
sky,  and  the  emerald  hue  of  the  bright  foliage,  I 
felt  that  an  intimacy  with  them,  not  consisting  of 
friendship  merely,  but  bordering  on  frenzy,  must 
accompany  my  steps  through  life  ; — and  now,  more 
than  ever,  am  I  persuaded  of  the  power  of  those 
early  impressions.  They  laid  such  hold  upon  me, 
that,  when  removed  from  the  woods,  the  prairies, 
and  the  brooks,  or  shut  up  from  the  view  of  the 
wide  Atlantic,  I  experienced  none  of  those  plea- 
sures most  congenial  to  my  mind.  None  but  aerial 
companions  suited  my  fancy.  No  roof  seemed  so 
secure  to  me  as  that  formed  of  the  dense  foUage 
under  which  the  feathered  tribes  were  seen  to  re- 
sort, or  the  caves  and  fissures  of  the  massy  rocks, 
to  which  the  dark-winged  cormorant  and  the  curlew 
retired  to  rest,  or  to  protect  themselves  from  the 
fury  of  the  tempest.  My  father  generally  accom- 
panied my  steps — procured  birds  and  flowers  for 
me  with  great  eagerness — pointed  out  the  elegant 
movements  of  the  former,  the  beauty  and  softness 
of  their  plumage,  the  manifestations  of  their  pleasure 
or  sense  of  danger — and  the  always  perfect  forms 
and  splendid  attire  of  the  latter.  My  valued  pre- 
ceptor would  then  speak  of  the  departure  and  re- 
turn of  birds  with  the  seasons,  would  describe  their 
haunts,  and,  more  wonderful  than  all,  their  change 
of  livery ;  thus  exciting  me  to  study  them,  and  to 
raise  my  mind  toward  their  Creator. 

"  A  vivid  pleasure  shone  upon  those  days  of  my 
early  youth,  attended  with  a  calmness  of  feeling,  that 
seldom  failed  to  rivet  my  attention  for  hours,  whilst 
I  gazed  in  ecstasy  upon  the  pearly  and  shining  eggs, 


THE  pnEMiu:>r.  87 

35  they  lay  imbedded  in  the  softest  down,  or  among 
dried  leaves  and  twigs,  or  exposed  upon  the  burn- 
ing sand  or  weather-beaten  rock,  of  our  Atlantic 
shores.  I  was  taught  to  look  upon  them  as  flowers 
yet  in  the  bud.  I  watched  their  opening,  to  see 
how  Nature  had  provided  each  dilfercnt  species 
with  eyes,  either  open  at  birth,  or  closed  for  some 
time  after ;  to  trace  the  slow  progress  of  the  young 
birds  toward  perfection,  or  admire  the  celerity  with 
which  some  of  them,  while  yet  unfledged,  removed 
themselves  from  danger  to  security, 

"  I  grew  up,  and  my  wishes  grew  with  my  form. 
These  wishes,  kind  reader,  were  for  the  entire  pos- 
session of  all  that  I  saw.  I  was  fervently  desirous 
of  becoming  acquainted  with  Nature.  For  many 
years,  however,  I  was  sadly  disappointed,  and  for 
ever,  doubtless,  must  I  have  desires  that  cannot  be 
gratified.  The  moment  a  bird  was  dead,  however 
beautiful  it  had  been  when  in  life,  the  pleasure 
arising  from  the  possession  of  it  became  blunted : 
and  although  the  greatest  cares  were  bestowed  on 
endeavours  to  preserve  the  appearance  of  nature,  I 
looked  upon  its  vesture  as  more  than  sullied,  as 
requiring  constant  attention  and  repeated  mendings, 
while,  after  all,  it  could  no  longer  be  said  to  be 
fresh  from  the  hands  of  its  Maker.  I  wished  to 
possess  all  the  productions  of  Nature,  but  I  wished 
life  with  them.  This  was  impossible.  Then  what 
was  to  be  done  1  I  turned  to  my  father,  and  made 
known  to  him  my  disappointment  and  anxiety. 
He  produced  a  book  of  Illustrations.  A  new  life 
ran  in  my  veins.  I  turned  over  the  leaves  with 
avidity  ;  and  although  what  I  saw  was  not  what  I 
longed  for,  it  gave  me  a  desire  to  copy  Nature.  To 
Nature  T  went,  and  tried  to  imitate  her,  as  in  the 
days  of  my  childhood  I  had  tried  to  raise  myself 


88  THE    PREMIU:^r. 

from  the  ground  and  stand  erect,  before  Nature  had 
imparted  the  vigour  necessary  for  the  success  pf  such 
an  undertaking. 

"How  sorely  disappointed  did  I  feel  for  many 
years,  when  I  saw  that  my  productions  were  worse 
than  those  which  I  ventured  (perhaps  in  silence)  to 
regard  as  bad,  in  the  book  given  me  by  my  father ! 
My  pencil  gave  birth  to  a  family  of  cripples.  So 
maimed  were  most  of  them,  that  they  resembled  the 
mangled  corpses  on  a  field  of  battle,  compared  with 
the  integrity  of  living  men.  These  difficulties  and 
disappointments  irritated  me,  but  never  for  a  mo- 
ment destroyed  the  desire  of  obtaining  perfect  repre- 
sentations of  Nature.  The  worse  my  drawings  were, 
the  more  beautiful  did  I  see  the  originals.  To  have 
been  torn  from  the  study,  would  have  been  as  death 
to  me.  My  time  was  entirely  occupied  with  it.  I 
produced  hundreds  of  these  rude  sketxihes  annually ; 
and  for  a  long  time,  at  my  request,  they  made  bon- 
fires on  the  anniversaries  of  my  birth-day." 


THE  BROOK. 

Of  those  scenes  which  are  alike  calculated  to 
bring  us  down  from  over  excitement,  or  rouse  us 
from  the  exhaustion  of  lassitude,  none  is  better 
than  the  margin  of  a  brook.  There  is  not  an  indi- 
cation of  anything  either  disposed  or  fitted  to 
destroy  :  those  elevated  banks,  with  their  alternat- 
ing glades  and  coppices,  forbid  the  action  of  such 
winds  as  sweep  the  hill-side  and  the  heath,  lash 
the  shore  in  sounds  like  thunder,  make  the  lake 
curl  its  white  crusted  billows,  and  even  the  river 
run  foaming  to  the  sea.  That  small  and  gentle 
stream,  now  stealing  unseen  under  beds  of  the 


THK  PHEJIIUjr.  89 

sweetest  wild  flowers,  which,  Uke  a  kind,  modest 
friend,  it  nourishes  in  secret  and  in  silence, — now 
curling  round  the  large  pebble,  as  if  it  would  not 
disturb  the  repose  of  even  a  stone, — then  gliding 
away  into  some  stagnant  angle,  where  it  woos 
the  wild  plants  to  come  and  quench  their  thirst, 
and  seems  more  a  garden  of  herbs,  than  even  an 
appendage  of  running  water ;  and  yet  again,  as 
if  it  would  not  derange  the  little  bank  of  gravel 
which  has  found  a  resting-place  in  its  bed,  it 
broadens  out  into  a  little  pool  where  the  gentle 
water-fowl  may  swim  in  safety,  the  songsters  of 
the  neighbouring  trees  perform  their  ablutions, 
the  small  quadrupeds  drink,  and  the  insect  tribes 
spend  their  brief  hours  in  joy  ; — that  gentle  stream 
is  the  cause  of  no  inundation,  tears  up  no  soil, 
and  hardly  bends  a  rush  or  drowns  a  fly.  There 
is  no  din  of  wings,  no  shadow  of  the  eagle,  no 
rushing  of  the  hawk,  not  a  death-doer,  or  a  death- 
cry,  from  all  unreasoning  nature  in  this  little  place  ; 
and  if  man  come  not  in  with  his  snare,  or  his 
weapon,  he  may  make  it,  or  rather  have  it,  the 
very  Eden  of  innocence.  How  easily  can  we 
trace  it  upward  to  the  fountains,  or  downward  to 
the  point  in  which  it  blends  its  waters,  and  loses 
its  name  in  the  river.  The  well  under  the  haw- 
thorn, by  the  base  of  the  rock,  the  depth  of  whose 
sources  defy  the  heat  of  summer  and  the  cold  of 
winter,  and  which,  for  virtues  more  valuable  than 
those  for  which  modem  idols  are  worshipped,  the 
simple  people  called  by  the  name  of  their  favourite 
saint ;  and,  for  the  health  that  the  draught  of  liquid 
diamond  had  given  them,  hung  with  garlands  and 
other  votive  oflferings,  as  they  hymned  him  in  their 
grateful  hearts; — that  shining  and  sainted  well  is 
the  farthest  source  of  our  little  brook-     And  though 


90  THE  PKEMIUM. 

the  brook  apparently  loves  to  linger  in  the  shade 
of  its  little  grove — where  the  willows,  whose  rough 
stems  are  the  parents  of  fifty  generations  of  osier 
twigs,  and  are  as  likely  as  ever  to  enrich  the  pea- 
sants with  fifty  more,  stand  rooted  in  the  water 
among  lofty  reeds  and  glowing  iris,  and  sport  the 
soft  glory  of  their  green  and  silver  in  the  wave- 
less  pool ; — where,  too,  the  alder  and  the  elm  blend 
their  passage,  and  all  is  so  still  that  the  fluttering 
leaves  of  the  aspen,  ever  in  motion  in  other  places, 
are  here  still — as  if  the  zephyrs  themselves  had 
forgotten  to  breathe. — Though  it  thus  lingers  and 
broadens,  the  fountain  is  not  at  the  distance  of  an 
hour's  walk  ;  and  that  walk  is  across  little  swells, 
fragrant  with  the  vernal  grass,  the  white  blossom 
of  the  creeping  trefoil,  the  wafted  sweets  of  the 
wild  hyacinth,  or  the  more  powerful  perfume  of 
the  bean-blossom,  according  to  the  season.  And 
the  inhabitants  of  those  little  cottages,  as  one  passes 
along  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  and  which  are 
so  pleasingly  simple,  with  their  thatch  and  their 
white  walls,  and  their  trailing  briars  and  their  clus- 
tering roses,  with  here  and  there  a  poeony  or  a 
tulip — when  the  horticultural  skill  and  pride  are 
more  than  common — they  are  as  innocent  as  they 
look.  They  are  in  happy  ignorance,  both  of  the 
grandeur  of  the  world  and  of  its  grievances.  The 
storm  that  unroofs  the  cottage,  or  sends  the  swathes 
of  hay  or  the  Fheaves  of  com  coursing  each  other 
over  the  field — the  fine  day  that  follows,  and  per- 
mits all  to  be  recovered  and  safe — the  revolving 
year — the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars  in  their 
courses — the  weekly  prayer  and  the  weekly  sermon 
— the  noise  of  the  mill,  and  the  noise  of  the 
"  smithy" — these  are  the  world  to  them ;  and  to 
their  minds  and  their  desires,  they  are  more  than 


THE  PREMIC.H.  91 

the  conquest  from  Rhodope  to  the  Indus  was  to 
the  monarch  of  Macedon. 

Those  who  have  not  visited  such  scenes,  and 
known  such  people,  have  something  yet  to  learn 
— something  which  is  one  of  the  most  dehghtful 
parts  of  natural  history.  Simple  as  those  people 
are,  there  are  in  them  the  germs  of  all  the  arts 
and  sciences,  and  fineries  and  blandishments  of 
life.  The  gold  is  there,  and  we  want  only  the 
coiner  with  his  stamp,  to  make  them  pass  current 
among  those  whose  superior  value  in  exchange 
depends  far  more  upon  the  impress  than  upon  the 
bullion. 

The  human  heart  is  as  warm  there,  and  the 
feelings  are  as  true,  as  where  every  sentence  is 
"  cut  to  model,"  and  every  attitude  ordered  by  the 
posture-master.  The  evening  walks  of  lovers  are 
as  enchanting  there  as  the  evening  medleys  in  the 
fashionable  world :  eyes  are  as  bright,  when  the 
star  of  eve  or  the  moon  of  night  is  their  only  rival, 
as  when  they  have  to  contend  with  the  glitter 
of  jewels,  and  the  glare  of  angular  crystal  and 
coloured  glass.  Neither  is  the  music  less  fasci- 
nating, or  less  in  melody  with  all  around,  that  it 
comes  without  purchase  from  the  feathered  tribes, 
than  if  it  warbled  in  all  the  wild  meanders  of 
German  harmony.  All  are  well  in  their  own 
places ;  and  the  nuptial  songs  of  the  birds  are 
just  as  much  in  accordance  with  the  plans  of  those 
rustic  youths  and  maidens,  who  have  chiefly  to 
consider  how  they  shall  best  construct  their  nests 
and  rear  their  broods,  as  the  exhibitions  of  splen- 
dour are  to  those  of  whom  spendour  is  the  idol 
and  the  joy. 

There  is  something  about  a  brook  which  leada 
one  more  insensibly,  but  more  irresistibly,  to  the 


92  THE    PREMIUM. 

contemplation  of  rustic  life,  than  anything  else  in 
rustic  scener}^  It  is  not  gerraain  to  wildness  and 
desolation,  and  it  is  no  kin  to  greatness.  There 
is  life  and  productiveness  about  it ;  but  it  is  life 
which  is  simple  and  unexpanded — a  shelter  and 
repose  from  the  sweep  of  the  elements  and  of 
time.  Everything  in  the  place  itself,  and  in  all  the 
accompaniments  of  the  place,  proclaims  that  here 
is  a  fulness  of  life,  and  of  life  that  knows  no 
enemy,  unless  when  man  steps  in  to  play  the 
fowler.  But  when  we  come  to  examine  it,  we 
find  that  it  is  only  the  exuberance  of  production; 
for  Nature  is  everywhere  true  to  her  economy, 
and  the  consumption  of  life  is  the  means  of  life 
as  much  on  the  margin  of  a  peaceful  brook  as  in 
the  haunts  of  the  most  formidable  destroyers. 
Still  all  is  redolent  of  life,  and  it  is  of  little  con- 
sequence whether  you  turn  your  attention  to  the 
air,  the  earth,  or  the  sky.  axon. 


THE  WORLD  TO  COME. 

If  all  our  hopes  and  all  our  fears 

Were  prisoned  in  life's  narrow  bound ; 
If,  travellers  through  this  vale  of  tears, 

We  saw  no  better  world  beyond  ; 
Oh  !  what  could  check  the  rising  sigh  ? 

What  earthly  thing  could  pleasure  give  ? 
Oh !  who  would  venture  then,  to  die — 

Or  who  would  venture  then  to  live  ? 

Were  life  a  dark  and  desert  moor. 

Where  mists  and  clouds  eternal  spread 

Their  gloomy  veil  behind,  before, 
And  tempests  thunder  overhead ; 


THE  pRExtr^r.  93 

Where  not  a  sunbeam  breaks  the  gloom, 
And  not  a  floweret  smiles  beneath. 

"Who  would  exist  in  such  a  tomb — 
Who  dwell  in  darkness  and  in  death  1 

And  such  were  hfe  without  the  ray 

Of  our  divine  religion  given ; 
'T  is  this  that  makes  our  darkness  day, 

'T  is  this  that  makes  our  earth  a  heaven  ! 
Bright  is  the  golden  sun  above. 

And  beautiful  the  flowers  that  bloom, 
And  all  is  joy,  and  all  is  love, 

Reflected  from  the  world  to  come ! 

BOWHIJTG, 


FUTURE  INCREASE  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

What  are  great  and  beneficial  discoveries,  in 
their  origin  ]  W'hat  is  the  process  which  has  led 
to  them  1  They  are  the  work  of  rational  man, 
operating  upon  the  materials  existing  in  nature, 
and  observing  the  laws  and  properties  of  the  phy- 
sical world.  The  Creator  of  the  universe  has  fur- 
nished us  the  material ;  it  is  all  around  us,  above 
us,  and  beneath  us  ;  in  the  ground  under  our  feet ; 
the  air  we  breathe  ;  the  waters  of  the  ocean  and 
of  the  fountains  of  the  earth ;  in  the  various  sub- 
jects of  the  kingdoms  of  nature.  We  cannot  open 
our  eyes,  nor  stretch  out  our  hands,  nor  take  a  step, 
but  we  see,  and  handle,  and  tread  upon  the  things, 
from  which  the  most  wonderful  and  useful  dis- 
coveries and  inventions  have  been  deduced.  W  hat 
is  gunpowder,  which  has  changed  the  character 
of  modern  warfare  1  It  is  the  mechanical  mix- 
ture of  some  of  the  most  common  and  least  costly 
substances.     What   is  the   art  of  printing  1     A 


S4  THE    PllEMtCM. 

contrivance  less  curious,  as  a  piece  of  mechanism, 
than  a  musical  box.  What  is  the  steam-engine  1 
An  apparatus  for  applying  the  vapour  of  boilinjj 
water.  What  is  vaccination  1  A  trifling  ail, 
communicated  by  a  scratch  of  the  lancet,  and 
capable  of  protecting  human  life  against  one  of 
the  m.ost  dreadful  maladies  to  which  it  is  exposed. 
And  are  the  properties  of  matter  all  discovered  1 
its  laws  all  found  out  1  the  uses  to  which  they 
may  be  applied  all  detected  1  I  cannot  believe  it. 
We  cannot  doubt,  that  truths  now  unknown  are 
in  reserve,  to  reward  the  patience  and  the  labours 
of  future  lovers  of  truth,  which  will  go  as  far  be- 
yond the  brilliant  discoveries  of  the  last  genera- 
tion, as  these  do  beyond  all  that  was  known  to  the 
ancient  world.  The  pages  are  infinite  in  that 
great  volume,  which  w*as  written  by  the  hand  di- 
vine, and  they  are  to  be  gradually  turned,  perused, 
and  announced,  to  benefited  and  grateful  genera- 
tions, by  genius  and  patience ;  and  especially  by 
patience ;  by  untiring,  enthusiastic,  self-devoting 
patience.  The  progress  which  has  been  made  in 
art  and  science  is  indeed  vast.  We  are  ready  to 
think  a  pause  must  follow  ;  that  the  goal  must  be 
at  hand.  But  there  is  no  goal;  and  there  can  be 
no  pause ;  for  art  and  science  are  in  themselves 
progressive.  They  are  moving  powers,  animated 
principles  :  they  are  instinct  with  life  ;  they  are 
themselves  the  intellectual  life  of  man.  Nothing 
can  arrest  them,  which  does  not  plunge  the  entire 
order  of  society  into  barbarism.  There  is  no  end 
to  truth,  no  bound  to  its  discovery  and  application  ; 
and  a  man  might  as  well  think  to  build  a  tower, 
from  the  top  of  which  he  could  grasp  Sirius  in  his 
hand,  as  prescribe  a  limit  to  discovery  and  inven- 
tion. 


Never  do  we  more  evince  our  arrogant  igno' 
ranee,  than  when  we  boast  our  knowledge.  True 
Science  is  modest ;  for  her  keen,  sagacious  eye 
discerns  that  there  are  deep,  undeveloped  mysteries 
where  the  vain  sciolist  sees  all  plain.  We  call 
this  an  age  of  improvement,  as  it  is.  But  the 
Italians,  in  the  age  of  Leo  X.  and  with  great  rea- 
son, said  the  same  of  their  age  ;  the  Romans,  in 
the  time  of  Cicero,  the  same  of  theirs ;  the  Greeks, 
in  the  time  of  Pericles,  the  same  of  theirs ;  and 
the  Assyrians  and  Egyptians,  in  the  flourishing 
periods  of  their  ancient  monarchies,  the  same  of 
theirs.  In  passing  from  one  of  these  periods  to 
another,  prodigious  strides  are  often  made  ;  and 
the  vanity  of  the  present  age  is  apt  to  flatter  itself, 
that  it  has  cUmbed  to  the  very  summit  of  invention 
and  skill.  A  wiser  posterity  at  length  finds  out, 
that  the  discovery  of  one  truth,  the  investigation 
of  one  law  of  nature,  the  contrivance  of  one  ma- 
chine, the  perfection  of  one  art,  instead  of  narrow- 
ing, has  widened  the  field  of  knowledge  still  to  be 
acquired,  and  given,  to  those  who  came  after,  £in 
ampler  space,  more  numerous  data,  better  instru- 
ments, a  higher  point  of  observation,  and  the  en- 
couragement of  living  and  acting  in  the  presence 
of  a  more  intelligent  age.  It  is  not  a  centurj'  since 
the  number  of  fixed  stars  was  estimated  at  about 
three  thousand.  Newton  had  counted  no  more. 
When  Pr.  Herschel  had  completed  his  great  tele- 
scope, and  turned  it  to  the  heavens,  he  calculated 
that  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  stars  passed 
through  its  field  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ! 

It  may  not  irreverently  be  conjectured  to  be  the 
harmonious  plan  of  the  universe,  that  its  two  grand 
elements  of  mind  and  matter  should  be  accurately 
adjusted  to  each  other ;  that  there  should  be  full 


96  THE  PIlE:MlrK. 

occupation  in  the  physical  worlJ,  in  its  laws  and 
properties,  and  in  the  moral  and  social  relations 
connected  with  it,  for  the  contemplative  and  active 
powers  of  every  created  intellect.  The  imperfec- 
tion of  human  institutions  has,  as  far  as  man  is 
concerned,  disturbed  the  pure  harmony  of  this 
great  system.  On  the  one  hand,  much  truth,  dis- 
coverable even  at  the  present  stage  of  human  im- 
provement, as  we  have  every  reason  to  think,  re- 
mains undiscovered.  On  the  other  hand,  thousands 
and  millions  of  rational  minds,  for  want  of  educa- 
tion, opportunity  and  encouragement,  have  remain- 
ed dormant  and  inactive,  though  surrounded  on 
every  side  by  those  qualities  of  things,  whose  ac- 
tion and  combination,  no  doubt,  still  conceal  the 
sublimest  and  most  beneficial  mysteries. 

But  a  portion  of  the  intellect,  which  has  been 
placed  on  this  goodly  theatre,  is  wisely,  intently, 
and  successfully  active ;  ripening,  even  on  earth, 
into  no  mean  similitude  of  higher  natures.  From 
time  to  time,  a  chosen  hand,  sometimes  directed 
by  chance,  but  more  commonly  guided  by  reflec- 
tion, experiment,  and  research,  touches,  as  it  were, 
a  spring  till  then  unperceived  ;  and,  through  what 
seemed  a  blank  and  impenetrable  wall, — the  barrier 
to  all  farther  progress, — a  door  is  thrown  open  into 
some  before  unexplored  hall  in  the  sacred  temple 
of  truth.  The  multitude  rushes  in,  and  wonders 
that  the  portals  could  have  remained  concealed  so 
long.  When  a  brilliant  discovery  or  invention  is 
proclaimed,  men  are  astonished  to  think  how  long 
they  had  lived  on  its  confines,  without  penetrating 
its  nature.  e.  eterett. 


THE  pre:mium.  97 

THE  DYING  FATHER  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 
Wheels  o'er  the  pavement  rolled,  and  a  light  form. 
Just  in  the  bud  of  blushing  womanhood, 
Stood  at  the  parent's  door.  Stern  midnight  frowned 
Upon  the  muffled  stars,  and  the  rich  curLs 
Of  that  fair  creature,  damp  and  heavy,  hung 
Around  her  brow.     No  mother's  tender  hand 
Dried  the  wet  tresses,  or  with  warm  caress, 
Restored  the  weary  spirit,  for  that  hand 
Lay  with  the  cold,  dull  earth-worm. 

Gray  and  sad. 
The  tottering  nurse  rose  up  ;  and  that  old  man, 
The  soldier-servant,  who  had  trained  the  steeds 
Of  her  slain  brothers  for  the  battle  field. 
Bowed  low^  to  point  her  to  that  couch  of  pain 
Where  the  sick  father  pined.     Oft  had  he  yearned 
For  her  sweet  presence ;  oft,  through  night's  long 

watch. 
Mused  of  his  daughter's  smiie,  till  dreams  restored 
The  ardent  pressure  of  her  ruby  lip, 
Dispelling  every  wo.     Yet,  far  away. 
She,  patient  student,  bending  o'er  her  tasks. 
And  all  unconscious  of  a  father's  grief, 
Toiled  for  those  fruits  of  knowledge  which  he  willed 
Her  to  possess,  still  ever  keeping  bright 
The  image  of  her  home,  and  his  dear  smile, 
To  cheer  her  labours. 

But  a  summons  came 
Of  sorrowful  surprise,  and  on  the  wing 
Of  filial  love  she  hasted.     'T  Was  too  late  ! 
The  lamp  of  life  still  burned,  yet  't  was  too  late  ! 
The  mind  had  passed  away,  and  who  should  call 
Its  wing  from  out  the  sky  1     For  the  embrace 
Of  warm  idolatry,  was  the  fixed  glare 
Of  the  dull,  glassy  eye.     Disease  had  dealt 
G 


§S  rtfE  ptifstitfM, 

A  fell  assassin's  blo^?^.     Oh  God  !  the  hiighi 
That  fell  on  those  fresh  hopes,  when  all  in  vaifl 
The  withered  hand  was  grasped,  and  the  wide  hali 
Echoed  to  •  Father  I  Father  V 

Through  the  sh?idea 
Of  that  long,  stilly  night,  she,  skepless,  bent, 
Bathing  with  tireless  hand  the  parching  brow 
And  the  death-pillow  smoothing.    When  fair  roorri 
Came  with  its  rose-tint  up,  she,  shrieking,  clasped 
Her  hands  with  joy,  for  its  reviving  flftsh 
Traced  that  wan  brow  as  if  with  one  brief  smile; 
Of  wakened  intellect.     *T  was  seeming  all  { 
And  Hope^s  fond  visions  faded,  as  the  day 
Rode  on  in  glory*     Night  her  curtains  drew, 
And  found  that  pale  and  beautiful  watcher  there, 
8till  unreposing.     Restless  on  his  couch 
Tossed  the  sick  man.     Cold  Lethargy  had  steeped 
The  last  pale  poppy  in  his  heart's  red  stream, 
And  Agony  was  stirring  Nature  up 
To  cope  with  her  destroyer. 

'  Oh,  my  God  ! 
Would  he  could  sleep  !'  sighed  a  low,  silver  voice, 
And  then  she  ran  to  hush  the  measured  tick 
Of  the  dull  night-clock,  and  to  scare  the  owl, 
Which  clinging  to  the  casement,  hoarsely  poured 
His  boding  note*     But  ah  !  from  that  wan  breast 
Thick-coming  groans  announced  the  foe  who  strike* 
But  once,     'iliey  bear  the  fainting  child  away, 
And,  paler  than  that  ashen  corse,  hei  face 
Drooped  o'er  the  old  nuree^s  shoulder,  while  a  flood 
Of  ebon  tresses  in  their  richness  veiled 
Her  marble  bosom.     ^T  was  a  fearful  sight 
To  see  a  young  heart  bursting,  while  the  old 
Went  to  its  rest* 

There  came  another  change. 
The  muffled  bell  tolled  out  the  funeral  hour. 


THE  PREJtirSt.  99 

And  many  a  foot  the  silent  threshold  pressed. 
Friendship  was  there,  with  its  full,  heavy  heart, 
Keen  curiosity,  intent  to  scan 
The  lordly  mansion,  and  gaunt  Worldliness 
Even  o'er  the  coffin  and  the  warning  shroud, 
Revolving  its  own  schemes.     And  one  was  there. 
To  whom  this  world  could  render  nothing  back 
Like  that  pale  piece  of  clay.     Calmly  she  stood, 
Even  as  a  statue.     The  old  house-dog  came, 
And  pressed  his  rough  head  to  her  snowy  palm, 
All  unreproved  of  her. 

He  for  his  master  mourned, 
And  could  she  spurn  that  faithful  friend,  who  oft 
His  shaggy  length  through  many  a  fire-side  hour 
Stretched  at  her  father's  feet,  and  round  his  bed 
Of  death  had  watched,  with  wondering,  wishful  eye, 
In  fear  and  sympathy  1     No  !  on  his  neck 
Her  orphan  tear  had  fallen,  and  by  her  side 
His  noble  front  he  reared,  as  proud  to  guard 
The  last,  loved  relic  of  his  master's  house. 
There  was  a  calmness  on  that  mourner's  brow, 
III  understood  by  many  an  eager  glance 
Which  settled  on  her.     Of  her  sire  they  spake, 
Who  suffered  scarce  the  breath  of  heaven  to  lift 
The  tresses  of  his  darling,  and  who  deemed 
In  the  deep  passion  of  his  heart's  sole  love, 
She  was  too  good  for  earth ;  and  then  they  gazed 
Indignant  on  her  tearless  eye,  and  said 
*  Hoxv  strange  that  he  should  be  so  lightly  moiirjied* 
Oh  woman,  oft  misconstrued  ! — the  pure  pearls 
Lie  all  too  deep  in  thy  heart's  secret  well, 
For  the  unpausing,  or  impatient  hand 
To  win  them  forth.     Yet  in  that  maiden's  breast 
Sorrow  and  loneliness  sank  darkly  down. 
While  the  meek  lip  breathed  out  no  boisterous  plaint 
Of  common,  funeral  grief.  sigoxtrket. 


100  THE  PREMIUM. 

FALTERO'S  CONSriRACY. 

Ix  the  early  times  of  Venice,  the  government 
was  possessed  by  the  doge,  unfettered  by  the  inter- 
ference of  counsels,  though  he  sometimes  volunta- 
rily solicited  the  advice  of  the  chief  citizens.  There 
were  also,  on  remarkable  emergencies,  general  as- 
semblies of  the  people.  But  the  defects  of  such 
a  government  were  perceived,  and  a  Grand  Council 
established,  with  the  consent  of  the  people,  con- 
sisting of  four  hundred  and  eighty  metnbers,  all 
men  of  high  birth. 

The  grand  council  soon  proceeded  to  limit  the 
prerogatives  of  the  doge,  and  appointed  a  second 
council,  of  forty,  to  administer  criminal  justice. 
A  council  of  sixty  assisted  the  doge  in  all  domestic 
and  foreign  business ;  and  the  famous  council  of 
ten  exercised  supreme  power  over  the  other  coun- 
cils, and  privately  investigated  and  punished  all 
state  crimes.  The  doge  was  bound  to  have  no 
private  correspondence  with  foreign  states,  to  ac- 
quire no  property  beyond  the  Venetian  dominions, 
to  interfere  in  no  judicial  process,  and  to  permit 
no  citizen  to  use  tokens  of  subjection  in  saluting 
him.  Thus  stripped  of  power,  it  might  truly  be 
said, 

'■'  Doo-e3  had  but  their  titles  for  their  glories. 
All  outward  honour  for  an  inward  toil." 

They  were  forced  to  be  content  with  the  chief 
rank  among  their  republican  countrj'men ;  and 
might,  as  citizens,  feel  pride  that  they  had  no  more 
authority  as  princes. 

Unsuccessful  attempts  against  power  only  have 
the  effect  of  increasing  its  strength  ;  and  the  failure 
of  Marino  Fahero's  conspiracy  against  the  senate 
rivetted  those  chains  which  he  wished  to  destroy. 


THE  PREMIUM.  101 

His  story  is  too  remarkable  to  "be  passed  over,  and 
is  best  told  by  Marino  Sanuto,  who  relates  it  nearly 
to  the  following  effect. 

Marino  Faliero  was  a  wealthy  Venetian  noble- 
man, who,  before  he  was  chosen  doge,  was  podesta 
or  chief  magistrate  of  Treviso.  Now  he  was  of 
so  very  proud  and  wrathful  a  temper,  that  one  day, 
when  a  procession  was  to  take  place,  the  bishop, 
delaying  to  come  as  soon  as  he  should  have  done 
to  administer  the  sacrament,  no  sooner  made  his 
appearance,  than  Faliero,  angry  at  being  kept 
waiting,  buffeted  him  with  such  violence  that  he 
nearly  fell  to  the  ground.  This  action  appeared 
so  profane  in  the  eyes  of  the  Italians  that  they 
believed  that  heaven,  therefore,  allowed  Marino  to 
go  out  of  his  right  senses,  in  order  that  he  might 
bring  himself  to  an  evil  death. 

In  1354,  Faliero,  being  then  an  old  man,  was 
elected  doge  of  Venice.  The  same  year,  having 
given  a  feast  to  all  his  nobles,  he  observed  a  young 
knight.  Sir  Michael  Steno,  behaving  himself  in  an 
unseemly  manner;  and,  with  his  usual  hastiness, 
commanded  that  he  should  be  thrown  off  the  raised 
pavement  on  which  he  was  standing.  Sir  Michael 
was  accordingly  pushed  down  the  steps  ;  which 
affront,  in  the  presence  of  so  many  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen of  distinction,  violently  incensed  him  ;  and 
passing  from  the  banquet  room  into  the  hall  of 
audience,  he  there,  in  the  heat  of  his  anger,  wrote 
some  satirical  lines  on  the  doge's  chair.  The  next 
day,  when  the  verses  were  seen,  the  doge  consi- 
dered the  insult  to  be  unpardonable,  and  on  making 
strict  inquiry  for  the  offender,  discovered  him  to  be 
the  Michael  Steno  whom  he  had  lately  disgraced 
in  the  presence  of  his  court.  In  great  anger  he 
caused  him  to  be  arrested  by  the  council  of  forty, 


102  THE  pnE3riu>r. 

hoping  that  they  would  sentence  him  to  some  severe 
punishment.  But  the  council,  taking  into  consi- 
deration Steno's  youth  and  the  provocation  he  had 
received,  thought  they  were  sufficiently  severe  in 
sentencing  him  to  two  months'  imprisonment,  and 
afterwards  a  year's  banishment  from  Venice. 

When  Faliero  heard  their  decision,  he  became 
exceedingly  angry,  saying,  that  Michael  Steno 
ought  to  have  been  hanged,  or,  at  the  least,  banish- 
ed for  life. 

While  he  was  brooding  over  this  matter,  an  ad- 
miral hastily  came  to  him,  indignantly  complaining 
of  the  wrong  he  had  received  from  a  gentleman 
vi'ith  whom  he  had  quarrelled,  who  had  struck  him 
so  that  his  face  was  yet  bleeding.  "  What  can  1 
do  for  thee  V  said  the  doge  :  "  think  of  the  shame- 
ful insult  which  I  have  received,  and  see  how  the 
council  pass  it  over."  The  admiral,  perceiving 
Faliero's  vexation,  immediately  began  to  throw 
out  hints  that  they  might  both  revenge  themselves 
on  the  senate  if  they  proceeded  resolutely  and  cau- 
tiously. Faliero  pondered  on  what  he  said,  and 
at  length  consented  to  the  enterprise.  Having 
taken  council  between  themselves,  they  admitted 
Faliero's  nephew,  a  seaman  named  Calendaro,  and 
several  others  into  the  plot,  and  met  nightly  in  the 
doge's  palace  till  they  had  concerted  their  schemes. 
Their  intention  was  to  assemble  in  different  parts 
of  the  city  on  the  15th  of  April,  and  to  make  dis- 
turbances among  themselves  and  the  townspeople, 
that  the  doge  might  have  a  pretext  for  ringing  the 
great  bell  of  St.  Mark,  which  was  only  done  on 
occasions  of  especial  danger.  This  was  to  be  the 
signal  for  a  general  muster  of  the  conspirators ; 
and  when  the  members  of  the  council  should  hasten 
from  their  houses  to  know  the  cause  of  the  uproar, 


THE  PKEMIUM.  103 

tKcy  were  to  be  immediately  cut  in  pieces,  and 
Marino  Faliero  proclaimed  sovereign  lord  of  Ve- 
nice. 

This  dangerous  conspiracy  was  discovered  by 
nearly  the  same  means  as  the  gunpowder  plot 
One  of  the  confederates,  named  Beltram,  had  a 
great  affection  for  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  one  of  the 
council,  and  could  not  bear  the  thoughts  of  his 
falling  in  the  general  massacre.  After  much  trou- 
ble of  mind  as  to  what  he  should  do,  his  affection 
conquered  ;  he  went  to  Lioni,  and  earnestly  en- 
treated him  not  to  leave  his  house  on  the  15th  of 
April.  Lioni,  alarmed  at  his  mysterious  manner, 
endeavoured  to  sift  the  truth  from  him,  and  at 
length  obtained  the  full  particulars  of  the  conspi- 
racy. He  had  no  sooner  heard  him  out,  than  he 
ran  from  the  room,  and  turned  the  key  on  the 
terrified  Beltram ;  then  hastened  to  one  of  his 
feliow-senators,  on  whose  judgment  he  could  rely, 
and  told  him  all  that  he  had  just  heard.  They 
went  together  to  Lioni's  house,  and  closely  ex- 
amined Beltram,  who,  though  greatly  alarmed  at 
the  betrayal  of  his  secret,  did  not  deny  the  truth. 
He  was  then  examined  at  a  private  meeting  of  the 
whole  council,  who  took  such  measures  as  to  pre- 
vent the  execution  of  the  plot  They  forbade  the 
tolling  of  the  great  bell,  seized  the  conspirators, 
tried  and  condemned  the  doge,  and  caused  the  sen- 
tence to  be  executed  on  him  the  following  day. 
He  was  beheaded  on  the  landing-place  of  the  stone 
staircase  of  the  palace;  and  one  of  the  council, 
taking  the  bloody  sword  from  the  executioner,  went 
to  a  balcony  and  showed  it  to  all  the  people,  cry- 
ing— "  The  terrible  doom  hath  fallen  on  the  trai- 
tor !"  This  dreadful  example  filled  the  people 
with  an  awful  sense  of  the  power  and  authority 


104  THE    PREXir^f. 

of  the  council,  which  thenceforth  met  with  aa 
opposition  to  its  decrees. 


THE  WINTER  NIGHT. 

'T  IS  the  high  festival  of  night ! 

The  earth  is  radiant  with  delight ; 

And,  fast  as  weary  day  retires, 

The  heaven  unfolds  its  secret  fires, 

Bright, — as  when  first  the  firmament 

Around  the  new  made  world  was  bent. 

And  infant  seraphs  pierced  the  blue, 

Till  rays  of  heaven  came  shining  through. 

And  mark  the  heaven's  reflected  glow 

On  many  an  icy  plain  below ; 

And  where  the  streams  with  tinkling  cla^ 

Against  their  frozen  barriers  dash, 

Like  fairy  lances  fleetly  cast 

The  glittering  ripples  hurry  past. 

And  floating  sparkles  glance  afar 

Like  rivals  of  some  upper  star. 

And  see,  beyond,  how  sweetly  still 
The  snowy  moou  light  wraps  the  hill. 
And  many  an  aged  pine  receives 
The  steady  brightness  on  its  leaves. 
Contrasting  with  those  giant  forms 
Which,  rifled  by  the  winter  storms, 
"With  naked  branches  broad  and  high. 
Are  darkly  painted  on  the  sky. 

From  every  mountain's  towering  head 
A  white  and  glistening  robe  is  spread. 
As  if  a  melted  silver  tide 
Were  gushing  down  its  lofty  side ; 


THE  piiE:Mif3r.  105 

The  clear  cold  lustre  of  the  moon 
Is  purer  than  the  burning  noon, 
And  day  hath  never  known  the  charm 
That  dwells  amid  this  evening  calm. 

The  idler  on  his  silken  bed 

May  talk  of  nature  cold  and  dead  ; 

But  we  will  gaze  upon  this  scene, 

Where  some  transcendeht  power  hath  been. 

And  made  these  streams  of  beauty  flow 

In  gladness  on  the  world  below, 

Till  nature  breathes  from  every  part 

The  rapture  of  her  mighty  heart. 

PEABODT. 


REBELLION  IN  THE  STATE  PRISON. 

A  MORE  impressive  exhibition  of  moral  courage, 
opposed  to  the  wildest  ferocity,  under  the  most 
appalling  circumstances,  was  never  seen,  than  that 
which  was  witnessed,  by  the  officers  of  the  Mas- 
sachusetts State  Prison  in  the  rebellion  which 
occurred  about  five  years  since.  Three  convicts 
had  been  sentenced  under  the  rules  of  the  prison 
to  be  whipped  in  the  yard,  and  by  some  effort  of 
one  of  the  other  prisoners,  a  door  had  been  opened 
at  midday,  communicating  with  the  great  dining 
hall,  and  through  the  warden's  lodge  with  the  street. 
The  dining  hall  is  long,  dark  and  damp,  from  its 
situation  near  the  surface  of  the  ground,  and  in 
this  all  the  prisoners  assembled,  with  clubs  and  such 
tools  as  they  could  seize  in  passing  through  the 
work-shops. 

Knives,  hammers,  and  chisels,  with  every  variety 
of  such  weapons,  were  in  the  hands  of  the  fero- 
cious spirits,  who  are  drawn  away  from  their  en- 


106  THE  PREMIUX. 

croachments  on  society,  forming  a  congregation 
of  strength,  vileness,  and  talent,  that  can  hardly 
be  equalled  on  earth,  even  among  the  famed  bri- 
gands of  Italy.  Men  of  all  ages  and  characters, 
guilty  of  every  variety  of  infamous  crimes,  dressed 
in  the  motley  and  peculiar  garb  of  the  institution, 
and  displaying  the  wild  and  demoniac  appearance 
that  always  pertains  to  imprisoned  wretches,  were 
gathered  together  for  the  single  purpose  of  pre- 
venting the  punishment  which  was  to  be  inflicted 
on  the  morrow,  upon  their  comrades. 

The  warden,  the  surgeon,  and  some  jather  officers 
of  the  prison  were  there  at  the  time,  and  were 
alarmed  at  the  consequences,  likely  to  ensue  from 
the  conflict  necessary  to  restore  order.  They  hud- 
dled together  and  could  scarcely  be  said  to  consult, 
as  the  stoutest  among  them  lost  all  presence  of 
mind  in  overwhelming  fear.  The  news  rapidly 
spread  through  the  town,  and  a  subordinate  officer 
of  most  mild  and  kind  disposition,  hurried  to  the 
scene,  and  came  calm  and  collected  into  the  midst 
of  the  officers.  The  most  equable  tempered  and 
the  mildest  man  in  the  government  was  in  this 
hour  of  peril  the  firmest. 

He  instantly  despatched  a  request  to  Major 
Wainwright,  commander  of  the  marines  stationed 
at  the  navy  yard,  for  assistance,  and  declared  his 
purpose  to  enter  into  the  hall  and  try  the  force  of 
firm  demeanor  and  persuasion  upon  the  enraged 
multitude.  All  his  brethren  exclaimed  against  an 
attempt  so  full  of  hazard ;  but  in  vain.  They 
offered  him  arms,  a  sword  and  pistols,  but  he  re- 
fused them,  and  said,  that  he  had  no  fear,  and  in 
case  of  danger  arms  would  do  him  no  service ;  and 
alone,  with  only  a  little  rattan,  which  was  his  usual 
walking  stick,  he  advanced  into  the  hall,  to  hold 


THE  piiEMrrjr.  107 

parley  with  the  selected,  congregated,  and  em  aged 
villains  of  the  whole  commonwealth. 

He  demanded  their  purpose,  in  thus  coming  to- 
gether with  arras,  in  violation  of  the  prison  laws. 
They  replied  that  they  were  determined  to  obtain 
the  remission  of  the  punishment  of  their  three  com- 
rades. He  said,  it  was  impossible ;  the  rules  of  the 
prison  must  be  obeyed,  and  they  must  submit.  At 
the  hint  of  submission,  they  drew  a  little  nearer  to- 
gether, prepared  their  weapons  for  service,  and,  as 
they  were  dimly  seen  in  the  farther  end  of  the  hall, 
by  those  who  observed,  from  the  gratings  that  open- 
ed up  to  the  day,  a  more  appalling  sight  cannot  be 
conceived,  nor  one  of  more  moral  grandeur,  than 
that  of  the  single  man,  standing  within  their  grasp 
and  exposed  to  be  torn  limb  from  limb  instantly,  if 
a  word  or  look  should  add  to  the  already  intense 
excitement. 

That  excitement,  too,  was  of  a  most  dangerous 
kind.  It  broke  not  forth  in  noise  and  imprecations, 
but  was  seen  only  in  the  dark  looks  and  the  strain- 
ed nerves,  that  showed  a  deep  determination.  The 
officer  expostulated.  He  reminded  them  of  the 
hopelessness  of  escape ;  that  the  town  was  alarmed, 
and  that  the  government  of  the  prison  would  sub- 
mit to  nothing  but  unconditional  surrender.  He 
said  that  all  those  who  would  go  quietly  away, 
should  be  forgiven  for  this  ofTence;  but  that  if 
every  prisoner  was  killed  in  the  contest,  power 
enough  would  be  obtained  to  enforce  the  regulations 
of  the  prison. 

They  replied  that  they  expected  that  some  would 
be  killed,  that  death  would  be  better  than  such  im- 
prisonment, and  wath  that  look  and  tone,  which 
bespeaks  an  indomitable  purpose,  they  declared, 
that  not  a  man  should  leave  the  hall  alive,  till  the 


lOS  THE    PHEMITJM. 

flogging  was  remitted.  At  this  period  of  the  dis- 
cussion their  e%il  passions  seemed  to  be  more  in- 
flamed, and  one  or  two  oft'ered  to  destroy  the  officer, 
who  still  stood  firmer,  and  with  a  more  temperate 
pulse,  than  did  his  triends  who  saw  from  above,  but 
could  not  avert  the  danger  that  threatened  him. 

Just  at  this  moment,  and  in  about  fifteen  minutes 
from  the  commencement  of  the  tumult,  the  officer 
saw  the  feet  of  the  marines,  whose  presence  alone 
he  relied  on  for  succour,  filing  by  the  small  upper 
lights.  Without  any  apparent  anxiety  he  had  re- 
peatedly turned  his  attention  to  their  approach,  and 
now  he  knew  that  it  was  his  only  time  to  escape, 
before  a  conflict  for  life  became  as  was  expected, 
one  of  the  most  dark  and  dreadful  in  the  world. 
He  stepped  slowly  backwards,  still  urging  them  to 
depart,  before  the  officers  v^'cre  driven  to  use  the 
last  resort  of  firearms.  When  within  three  or  four 
feet  of  the  door,  it  was  opened,  and  closed  instantly 
again,  as  he  sprang  through,  and  was  so  unexpect- 
edly restored  to  his  friends. 

Major  Wainwright  was  requested  to  order  his  men 
to  fire  down  upon  the  convicts  through  the  little 
windows,  first  with  powder  and  then  with  ball,  till 
they  were  willing  to  retreat;  but  he  took  a  wiser 
as  well  as  a  bolder  course,  relymg  upon  the  effect 
which  firm  determination  would  have  upon  men  so 
critically  situated.  He  ordered  the  door  to  be  again 
opened,  and  marched  in  at  the  head  of  twenty  or 
thirty  men,  who  filed  through  the  passage  and  form- 
ed at  the  end  of  the  hall  opposite  to  the  crowd  of 
criminals  huddled  together  at  the  other. 

He  stated  that  he  was  impowered  to  quell  the 
rebellion,  that  he  wished  to  avoid  shedding  blood, 
but  that  he  should  not  quit  that  hall  alive,  till  every 
con\ict  had  returned  to  his  duty.     They  seemed 


THE  PREMIU.M.  109 

balancing  the  strength  of  the  two  parties ;  and  re- 
plied that  some  of  them  were  ready  to  die,  and  only- 
waited  for  an  attack  to  see  who  was  most  powerful, 
swearing  that  they  would  fight  to  the  last,  unless 
the  flogging  was  remitted,  for  they  would  not  sub- 
mit to  any  such  punishment  in  the  prison.  Major 
Wainwright  ordered  his  marines  to  load  their  pieces, 
and,  that  they  might  not  be  suspected  of  trifling, 
each  man  was  made  to  hold  up  to  view  the  bullet 
which  he  afterwards  put  in  his  gun. 

This  only  caused  a  growl  of  determination,  and  no 
one  blenched  or  seemed  disposed  to  shrink  from  the 
foremost  exposme.  They  knew  that  their  number 
would  enable  them  to  bear  down  and  destroy  the 
handful  of  marines,  after  the  first  discharge,  and 
before  their  pieces  could  be  reloaded.  Again  they 
were  ordered  to  retire ;  but  they  answered  with 
more  ferocity  than  ever.  The  marines  were  ordered 
to  take  their  aim  so  as  to  be  sure  to  Idll  as  many  as 
possible — their  guns  were  presented — but  not  a 
prisoner  stirred,  except  to  grasp  more  firmly  his 
weapon. 

Still  desirous  to  avoid  such  a  tremendous  slaughter 
as  must  have  followed  the  discharge  of  a  single  gun. 
Major  Wainwright  advanced  a  step  or  two,  and 
spoke  even  more  firmly  than  before,  urging  them  to 
depart.  Again,  and  while  looking  directly  into  the 
muzzles  of  the  guns,  which  they  had  seen  loaded 
with  ball,  they  declared  their  intention  '  to  fight  it 
out.'  This  intrepid  officer  then  took  out  his  watch, 
and  told  his  men  to  hold  their  pieces  aimed  at  the 
convicts,  but  not  fire  till  they  had  orders ;  then  turn- 
ing to  the  prisoners  he  said,  'you  must  leave  this 
hall — I  give  you  three  minutes  to  decide — if  at  the 
end  of  that  time  a  man  remains,  he  shall  be  shot 
dead.' 


1  10  t'A-E  PllKMltT^t. 

No  situation  of  greater  interest  than  this  can  be 
conceived.  At  one  end  of  the  hall  a  fearful  multi* 
tude  of  the  most  desperate  and  powerful  men  in 
creation,  waiting  for  the  assault — at  the  other,  a 
little  band  of  disciplined  men,  waiting  with  arms 
presented,  and  ready,  upon  the  least  motion  or  sign, 
to  begin  the  carnage — and  their  tall  and  imposing 
commander,  holding  up  his  watch  to  count  the  lapse 
of  three  minutes,  given  as  the  reprieve  to  the  lives 
of  numbers.  No  poet  or  painter  Can  conceive  of  a 
spectacle  of  more  dark  and  terrible  sublimity — no 
human  heart  can  conceive  a  situation  of  more  ap- 
palling suspense. 

For  two  minutes  not  a  person  or  a  muscle  was 
moved,  not  a  sound  was  heard  in  the  unwonted 
stillness  of  the  prison,  except  the  laboured  breathings 
of  the  infuriated  wretches,  as  they  began  to  pant, 
between  fear  and  revenge — at  the  expiration  of  two 
minutes,  during  which  they  had  faced  the  ministers 
of  death,  with  unblenching  eyes,  two  or  three  of 
those  in  the  rear  and  nearest  to  the  further  entrance 
went  slowly  out — a  few  more  followed  the  example, 
dropping  out  quietly  and  deliberately,  and  before 
half  of  the  last  minute  had  gone,  every  man  was 
struck  by  the  panic  and  crowded  for  an  exit ;  and 
the  hall  was  cleared  as  if  by  magic.  Thus  the 
steady  firmness  of  moral  force,  and  the  strong  effect 
of  determination,  acting  deliberately,  awed  the  most 
savage  men,  and  suppressed  a  scene  of  carnage, 
which  would  have  instantly  followed  the  least  pre- 
cipitancy or  exertion  of  physical  force. 

BUCKIXGHAH. 


THE  fEEStlf 3r,  111 


THE  HtfRKFCAlVU. 

Vlttto'us  portions  of  our  country  have  at  different 
periods,  suffered  severely  from  the  influence  of  vio- 
lent storms  of  wind,  some  of  which  have  been  known 
to  traverse  nearly  the  whole  extent  of  the  United 
States,  and  to  leave  such  deep  impressions  in  their 
Wake  as  will  not  easily  be  forgotten.  Having  witness- 
ed one  of  these  awfiil  phenomena,  in  all  its  grandeur, 
I  shall  attempt  to  describe  it  for  your  sake,  kind  read- 
er, and  for  your  sake  only,  the  recollection  of  that 
astonishing  revolution  of  the  ethereal  element,  even 
now  bringing  with  it  so  disagreeable  a  sensation, 
that  I  feel  as  if  about  to  be  affected  by  a  sudden 
stoppage  of  the  circulation  of  my  blood. 

I  had  left  the  village  of  Shawaney,  situated  on 
the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  on  my  return  from  Hender- 
son, which  is  also  seated  on  the  banks  of  the  same 
beautiful  stream.  The  weather  was  pleasant,  and 
I  thought  not  warmer  than  usual  at  that  season. 
My  horse  was  jogging  quietly  along,  and  my 
thoughts  were,  for  once  at  least  in  the  course  of  my 
life,  entirely  engaged  in  commercial  speculations. 
I  had  forded  Highland  Creek,  and  was  on  the  eve 
of  entering  a  tract  of  bottom  land  or  valley  that  lay 
between  it  and  Canoe  Creek,  when,  on  a  sudden,  I 
remarked  a  great  difference  in  the  aspect  of  the 
heavens.  A  hazy  thickness  had  overspread  the 
country,  and  I  for  sometime  expected  an  earthquake, 
but  my  horse  exhibited  no  propensity  to  stop  and 
prepare  for  such  an  occurrence.  I  had  nearly  arriv- 
ed at  the  verge  of  the  valley,  when  I  thought  fit  to 
stop  near  a  brook,  and  dismount  to  quench  the 
thirst  which  had  come  upon  me. 

I  was  leaning  on  my  knees  with  my  lips  about 


113  THE  PHEMirX. 

to  touch  the  water,  when,  from  my  proximity  to  the 
earth,  I  heard  a  distant  murmuring  sound  of  an  ex- 
traordinary nature.  I  drank,  however,  and  as  I  rose 
on  my  feet,  looked  toward  the  southwest,  where  I 
observed  a  yellowish  oval  spot,  the  appearance  of 
which  was  quite  new  to  me.  Little  time  was  left 
me  for  consideration,  as  the  next  moment  a  smart 
breeze  began  to  agitate  the  taller  trees.  It  increased 
to  an  unexpected  height,  and  already  the  smaller 
branches  and  twigs  were  seen  falling  in  a  slanting 
direction  towards  the  ground.  Two  minutes  had 
scarcely  elapsed,  when  the  whole  forest  before  me 
was  in  fearful  motion.  Here  and  there,  where  one 
tree  pressed  against  another,  a  creaking  noise  was 
produced,  similar  to  that  occasioned  by  the  violent 
gusts  which  sometimes  sweep  over  the  country. 
Turning  instinctively  towards  the  direction  from 
which  the  wind  blew,  I  saw,  to  my  great  astonish- 
ment, that  the  noblest  trees  of  the  forest  bent  their 
lofty  heads  for  a  while,  and  unable  to  stand  against 
the  blast,  were  falling  into  pieces.  First,  the  branch- 
es were  broken  ofi'  with  a  crackling  noise  ;  then 
went  the  upper  part  of  the  massy  trunks :  and  in 
many  places  whole  trees  of  gigantic  size  were  fall- 
ing entire  to  the  ground.  So  rapid  was  the  progress 
of  the  storm,  that  before  I  could  think  of  taking 
measures  to  ensure  my  safety,  the  hurricane  was 
passing  opposite  the  place  where  I  stood.  Never 
can  I  forget  the  scene  which  at  that  moment  pre- 
sented itself.  The  tops  of  the  trees  were  seen 
moving  in  the  strangest  manner,  in  the  central 
current  of  the  tempest,  which  carried  along  with  it 
a  mingled  mass  of  twigs  and  foliage,  that  complete- 
ly obscured  the  view.  Some  of  the  largest  trees 
were  seen  bending  and  writhing  under  the  gale  ; 
others  suddenly  snapped  across ;  and  many',  after  a 


THE  PnE.MITj'M.  113 

momentary  resistance,  fell  uprooted  to  the  earth. 
The  mass  of  branches,  twigs,  foliage,  and  dust  that 
moved  through  the  air,  was  whirled  onwards  like  a 
cloud  of  feathers,  and  on  passing,  disclosed  a  wide 
space  filled  with  fallen  trees,  naked  stumps,  and 
heaps  of  shapeless  ruins,  which  marked  the  path  of 
the  tem.pest.  This  space  was  about  a  fourth  of  a 
mile  in  breadth,  and  to  my  imagination  resembled 
the  dried  up  bed  of  the  Mississippi,  with  its  thousands 
of  planters  and  sawyers,  strewed  in  the  sand,  and 
inclined  in  various  degrees.  The  horrible  noise 
resembled  that  of  the  great  cataracts  of  Niagara,  and 
as  it  howled  along  the  track  of  the  desolating  tem- 
pest, produced  a  feeling  in  my  rahid  wtiich  it  were 
impossible  to  describe. 

The  principal  force  of  the  hurricane  was  now 
over,  although  millions  of  twigs  and  small  branches, 
that  had  been  brought  from  a  great  distance,  were 
seen  following  the  blast,  as  if  drawn  onwards  by 
some  mysterious  power.  They  even  floated  in  the 
air  for  some  hours  after,  as  if  supported  by  the  thick 
mass  of  dust  that  rose  high  above  the  ground.  I'he 
sky  had  now  a  greenish  lurid  hue,  and  an  extremely 
disagreeable  sulphureous  odour  was  diffused  in  the 
atmosphere.  I  waited  in  amazement,  having  sus- 
tained no  material  injui-y,  until  nature  at  length  re- 
sumed her  wonted  aspect.  For  some  moments,  I 
felt  undetermined  whether  I  should  return  to  Mor- 
gantown,  or  attempt  to  force  my  way  through  the 
wrecks  of  the  tempest.  My  business,  however,  be- 
ing of  an  urgent  nature,  I  ventured  into  the  path 
of  the  storm,  and  after  encountering  innumerable 
difficulties,  succeeded  in  crossing  it.  I  was  obliged 
to  lead  my  horse  by  the  bridle,  to  enable  him  to 
leap  over  the  fallen  trees,  whilst  I  scrambled  over 
or  unJer  them  in  the  best  way  I  could,  at  times  so 
li 


114  THE  PntMIUM. 

hemmed  in  by  the  broken  tops  and  tangled  branch" 
es,  as  almost  to  become  desperate.  On  arriving  at 
my  house,  I  gave  an  account  of  what  I  had  seen, 
\vhen,  to  my  surprise,  I  was  told  that  there  had 
been  very  Uttle  wind  in  the  neighbourhood,  al- 
though in  the  streets  and  gardens  many  branches 
and  twigs  had  fallen  in  a  manner  which  excited 
great  surprise. 

Many  wondrous  accounts  of  the  devastating 
effects  of  this  hurricane  were  circulated  in  the 
country  after  its  occurrence.  Some  loghouses,  we 
W'cre  told,  had  been  overturned,  and  their  inmates 
destroyed.  One  person  informed  me  that  a  wire-sifter 
had  been  conveyed  by  the  gust  to  a  distance  of  many 
miles.  Another  had  found  a  cow  lodged  in  the  fork 
of  a  large  half-broken  tree.  But,  as  I  am  disposed 
to  relate  only  w^hat  I  have  myself  seen,  I  shall  not 
lead  you  into  the  region  of  romance,  but  shall 
content  myself  with  saying  that  much  damage  was 
done  by  this  awful  visitation.  The  valley  is  yet  a 
desolate  place,  overgrown  with  briers  and  bushes, 
thickly  entangled  amidst  the  tops  and  trunks  of  the 
fallen  trees,  and  is  the  resort  of  ravenous  animals, 
to  which  they  betake  themselves  when  pursued  by 
man,  or  after  they  have  committed  their  depreda- 
tions, on  the  farms  of  the  surrounding  districts.  I 
have  crossed  the  path  of  the  storm,  at  a  distance  of 
a  hundred  miles  from  the  spot  where  I  witnessed 
its  fury,  and,  again,  four  hundred  miles  farther  off, 
in  the  state  of  Ohio.  Lastly,  I  observed  traces  of 
its  ravages  on  the  summits  of  the  mountains  con- 
nected with  the  Great  Pine  Forest  of  Pennsylvania, 
three  hundred  miles  beyond  the  place  last  mentioned. 
In  all  these  different  parts,  it  appeared  to  me  not 
to  have  exceeded  a  quarter  of  mile  in  breadth. 

AUDUBOK. 


THE  PRE>tIUM»  116 


HYMN  OF  NATURE. 

God  of  the  earth's  extended  plains ! 

The  dark  green  fields  contented  lie : 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky : 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 

With  joyous  music  in  their  flow» 

God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep  ! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands. 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  slorm 

Hath  summoned  up  their  thundering  bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calmed  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade  ! 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

liifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee  ; 
But  more  majestic  far  they  stand. 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 

And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might. 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow ; 
All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh. 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry — 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 


116  TiiE  piii;Miir>f, 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky  ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  spriugs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings ; 
Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  throngliy 

Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above  ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 

And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven. 

Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  tluone, 

God  of  the  world  !  the  hour  must  come. 

And  natvire's  self  to  dust  return  ! 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay  ! 

Her  incense  fire  shall  cease  to  burn  r 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow  ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below, 

PRABODT, 


THE  PRAIRIE. 


Os  my  return  from  the  Upper  Mississippi,  I 
found  myself  obliged  to  cross  one  of  the  wide  prai- 
ries, which,  in  that  portion  of  the  United  States, 
vary  the  appearance  of  the  country.  The  weather 
was  fine,  all  around  me  was  as  fresh  and  as  bloom- 
ing as  if  it  had  just  issued  from  the  bosom  of  na- 


THE  PREXITTM^.  117 

tore.  My  knapsack,  my  gun,  and  my  dog.  were  all 
I  had  for  baggage  and  company.  But,  although 
well  moccasined,  I  moved  slowly  along,  attracted 
by  the  brilliancy  of  the  flowers,  and  the  gambols  of 
the  fawns  around  their  dams,  to  all  appearance  as 
thoughtless  of  danger,  as  I  felt  myself. 

My  march  was  of  long  duration ;  I  saw  the  sun 
sinking  beneath  the  horizon  long  before  I  could 
perceive  any  appearance  of  woodland,  and  nothing 
in  the  shape  of  man  had  I  met  with  that  day. 
The  track  which  I  followed  was  only  an  old  Indian 
trace,  and  as  darkness  overshaded  the  prairie,  I  felt 
.some  desire  to  reach  at  least  a  copse,  in  which  I 
might  lie  down  to  rest.  The  night-hawks  were 
skimming  over  and  around  me,  attracted  by  the 
buzzing  wings  of  the  beetles  which  form  their  food, 
and  the  distant  howling  of  wolves  gave  me  some 
hope  that  I  should  soon  arrive  at  the  skirts  of  some 
woodland. 

I  did  so,  and  almost  at  the  same  instant  a  fire- 
light attracted  my  eye.  I  moved  towards  it,  full  of 
confidence  that  it  proceeded  from  the  camp  of  some 
wandering  Indians.  I  was  mistaken : — I  discovered 
by  its  glare  that  it  was  from  the  hearth  of  a  small 
log  cabin,  and  that  a  tall  figure  passed  and  repassed 
between  it  and  me,  as  if  busily  engaged  in  Ixouse- 
hold  arrangements. 

I  reached  the  spot,  and  presenting  myself  at  the 
door,  asked  the  tall  figure,  which  proved  to  be  a 
woman,  if  I  might  take  shelter  under  her  roof  for 
the  night.  Her  voice  was  gruff,  and  her  attire 
negligently  thrown  about  her.  She  answered  in  the 
affirmative.  I  walked  in,  took  a  wooden  stool,  and 
quietly  seated  myself  by  the  fire.  The  next  object 
that  attracted  my  notice,  was  a  finely  formed  young 
Indian,  resting  his  head  between  his  hands,  with 


118  THE  pRE>nr.>r. 

his  elbows  on  his  knees.  A  long  bow  rested  against 
the  log  wall  near  him,  while  a  quantity  of  arrows 
and  two  or  three  racoon  skins  lay  at  his  feet.  He 
moved  not;  he  apparently  breathed  not.  Accus- 
tomed to  the  habits  of  the  Indians,  and  knowing 
that  they  pay  little  attention  to  the  approach  of 
civilized  strangers,  (a  circumstance  which  in  some 
countries  is  considered  as  evincing  the  apathy  of 
their  character,)  I  addressed  him  in  French,  a 
language  not  unfrequently  partially  known  to  the 
people  in  that  neighbourhood.  He  raised  his  head, 
pointed  to  one  of  his  eyes  with  his  finger,  and  gave 
me  a  significant  glance  with  the  other.  His  face 
was  covered  with  blood.  The  fact  was,  that  an  hour 
before  this,  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  discharging  an 
arrow  at  a  racoon  in  the  top  of  a  tree,  the  arrow 
had  spht  upon  the  cord,  and  sprung  back  with 
such  violence  into  his  right  eye  as  to  destroy  it  for 
ever. 

Feeling  hungry,  I  inquired  what  sort  of  fare  I 
might  expect.  Such  a  thing  as  a  bed  was  not  to  be 
seen,  but  many  large  untanned  bear  and  buffalo 
hides  lay  piled  in  a  corner.  I  drew  a  fine  time- 
piece fi-om  my  breast,  and  told  the  woman  that  it 
was  late,  and  that  I  was  fatigued.  She  had  espied 
my  watch,  the  richness  of  which  seemed  to  operate 
upon  her  feelings  with  electric  quickness.  She  told 
me  that  there  was  plenty  of  venison  and  jerked  buf- 
falo meat,  and  that  on  removing  the  ashes  I  should 
find  a  cake.  But  my  watch  had  struck  her  fancy,  and 
her  curiosity  had  to  be  gratified  by  an  immediate 
sight  of  it  I  took  off  the  gold  chain  that  secured  it 
fi"om  around  my  neck,  and  presented  it  to  her.  She 
was  all  ecstacy,  spoke  of  its  beauty,  asked  me  its 
value,  and  put  the  chain  around  her  brawny  neck, 
saying  how  happy  the  possession  of  such  a  watch 


THE   PaF.MIUM.  119 

would  make  her.  Thoughtless,  and  as  I  fancied 
myself,  in  so  retired  a  sj)ot,  secure,  I  paid  little  at- 
tention to  her  talk  or  her  movements.  I  helped 
my  dog  to  a  good  supper  of  venison,  and  was  not 
long  in  satisfying  the  demands  of  my  own  appetite. 

The  Indian  rose  from  his  seat,  as  if  in  extreme 
suffering.  He  passed  and  repassed  me  several  times, 
and  once  pinched  uie  on  the  side  so  violently,  that 
the  pain  nearly  brought  forth  an  exclamation  of 
anger.  I  looked  at  him.  His  eye  met  mine ;  but 
his  look  was  so  forbidding,  that  it  struck  a  chill 
into  the  more  nervous  part  of  my  system.  He  again 
seated  himself,  drew  his  butcher-knife  from  its  greasy- 
scabbard,  examined  its  edge,  as  I  would  do  that  of  a 
razor  suspected  dull,  replaced  it,  and  again  taking 
his  tomahawk  from  his  back,  filled  the  pipe  of  it 
with  tobacco,  and  sent  me  expressive  glances  when- 
ever our  hostess  chanced  to  have  her  back  toward 
us. 

Never  until  that  moment  had  my  senses  been 
wakened  to  the  danger  which  I  now  suspected  to  be 
about  me.  I  returned  glance  for  glance  to  my  com- 
panion, and  rested  well  assured  that,  whatever  ene- 
mies I  might  have,  he  was  not  of  their  number. 

I  asked  the  woman  for  my  watch,  wound  it  up, 
and  under  pretence  of  wishing  to  see  how  the 
weather  might  probably  be  on  the  morrow,  took  up 
my  gun,  and  walked  out  of  the  cabin.  I  slipped  a 
ball  into  each  barrel,  scraped  the  edges  of  my  flints, 
renewed  the  primings,  and  returning  to  the  hut,  gave 
a  favourable  account  of  my  observations.  I  took  a 
few  bear-skins,  made  a  pallet  of  them,  and  calling 
my  faithful  dog  to  my  side,  lay  down,  with  my  gun 
close  to  my  body,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was,  to  all 
appearance,  fast  asleep. 

A  short  time  had  elapsed,  when  some  voices  were 


120  THE    PRE3IIU5I. 

heard,  and  from  the  comer  of  my  eyes  I  saw  two 
athletic  youths  making  their  entrance,  bearing  a 
dead  stag  on  a  pole.  They  disposed  of  their  burden, 
and  asking  for  whiskey,  helped  themselves  freely  to 
it.  Observing  me  and  the  wounded  Indian,  they 
asked  who  I  was,  and  why  the  devil  that  rascal 
(meaning  the  Indian,  who,  they  knew,  understood 
not  a  word  of  English)  was  in  the  house.  The 
mother — for  so  she  proved  to  be,  bade  them  speak 
less  loudly,  made  mention  of  my  watch,  and  took 
them  to  a  corner,  where  a  conversation  took  place, 
the  purport  of  which  it  required  little  shrewdness 
in  me  to  guess.  I  tapped  my  dog  gently.  He 
moved  his  tail,  and  with  indescribable  pleasure  I 
saw  his  fine  eye  alternately  fixed  on  me  and  raised 
towards  the  trio  in  the  comer.  \  felt  that  he  per- 
ceived danger  in  my  situation.  The  Indian  ex- 
changed a  last  glance  with  me. 

The  lads  had  eaten  and  drunk  themselves  into 
such  condition,  that  I  already  looked  upon  them  as 
hors  de  combat ;  and  the  frequent  visits  of  the 
whiskey  bottle  to  the  ugly  mouth  of  their  dam,  I 
hoped  would  soon  reduce  her  to  a  like  state.  Judge 
of  my  astonishment,  reader,  when  I  saw  this  incar- 
nate fiend  take  a  large  carving-knife,  and  go  to  a 
grindstone  to  whet  its  edge.  I  saw  her  pour  the 
water  on  the  turning  machine,  and  watched  her 
working  away  with  the  dangerous  instrument,  until 
the  cold  sweat  covered  every  part  of  my  body,  in 
spite  of  my  determination  to  defend  myself  to  the 
last.  Her  task  finished,  she  walked  to  her  reeling 
sons,  and  sjiid,  •  There,  that'll  soon  settle  him ! 
Boys,  kill  yon  ■.  and  then  for  the  watch.' 

I  turned,  cocked  my  gun-locks  silently,  touched 
my  faithful  companion,  and  lay  ready  to  start  up 
and   shoot   the  first  who    might  attempt  my  life. 


THE  PHErillUM.  121 

The  moment  was  fast  approaching,  and  that  might 
have  been  my  last  in  this  world,  had  not  Providence 
made  preparations  for  my  rescue.  All  was  ready. 
The  infernal  hag  was  advancing  slowly,  probably 
contemplating  the  best  way  of  despatching  me, 
whilst  her  sons  should  be  engaged  with  the  Indian. 
I  was  several  times  on  the  eve  of  rising,  and  shoot- 
ing her  on  the  spot : — but  she  was  not  to  be  punish- 
ed thus.  The  door  was  suddenly  opened,  and  there 
entered  two  stout  travellers,  each  with  a  long  rifle 
on  his  shoulder.  I  bounded  upon  my  feet,  and  mak- 
ing them  most  heartily  welcome,  told  them  how 
well  it  was  for  me  that  they  should  have,  arrived  at 
that  moment.  The  tale  was  told  in  a  minute.  The 
drunken  sons  were  secured,  and  the  woman,  in  spite 
of  her  defence  and  vociferations,  shared  the  same 
fate.  The  Indian  fairly  danced  with  joy,  and  gave 
us  to  understand  that,  as  he  could  not  sleep  for  pain, 
he  would  watch  over  us.  You  may  suppose  we 
slept  much  less  than  we  talked.  The  two  stran- 
gers gave  me  an  account  of  their  once  having  been 
themselves  in  a  somewhat  similar  situation.  Day 
came,  fair  and  rosy,  and  with  it  the  punishment  of 
our  captives. 

They  were  not  quite  sobered.  Their  feet  were 
unbound,  but  their  arms  were  still  securely  tied. 
We  marched  them  into  the  woods  off  the  road,  and 
having  used  them  as  Regulators  were  wont  to  use 
such  delinquents,  we  set  fire  to  the  cabin,  gave  all 
the  skins  and  implements  to  the  young  Indian  war- 
rior, and  proceeded,  well  pleased,  towards  the  settle- 
ments. 

During  upwards  of  twenty-five  years,  when  my 
wanderings  extended  to  all  parts  of  our  country,  this 
was  the  only  time  at  which  my  life  was  in  danger 
from  my  fellow-creatures.     Indeed,  so  little  risk  do 


122  THE    PBEMIUM. 

travellers  run  in  the  United  States,  that  no  one  born 
there  ever  dreams  of  any  to  be  encountered  on  the 
road  ;  and  I  can  only  account  for  this  occurrence  by 
supposing  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  cabin  were  not 
Americans. 

Will  you  believe,  good-natured  reader,  that  not 
many  miles  from  the  place  vphere  this  adventure 
happened,  and  where,  fifteen  years  ago,  no  habita- 
tion belonging  to  civilized  man  was  expected,  and 
very  few  ever  seen,  large  roads  are  now  laid  oat, 
cultivation  has  converted  the  woods  into  fertile 
fields,  taverns  have  been  erected,  and  much  of  what 
we  Americans  call  comfort,  is  to  be  met  with  1  So 
fast  does  improvement  proceed  in  our  abundant  and 
free  country.  acdubox. 


THE  SNOW  FLAKE. 


'  Now  if  I  fall,  will  it  be  my  lot 

To  be  cast  in  some  lone  and  lowly  spot — 

To  melt,  and  to  sink  unseen  or  forgot ; 

And  there  w^ill  my  course  be  ended  V 
'T  was  thus  a  feathery  Snow  Flake  said, 
As  down  through  measureless  space  it  strayed, 
Or,  as  half  in  daUiance,  half  afraid, 

It  seemed  in  mid  air  suspended. 

'  Oh  !  no,'  said  the  Earth,  '  thou  shalt  not  lie, 
Neglected  and  alone  on  my  lap  to  die. 
Thou  pure  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky ! 

For  thou  shalt  be  safe  in  my  keeping. 
But  then  I  must  give  thee  a  lovelier  form  ; 
Thou  'It  not  be  a  part  of  the  wintry  storm — 
But  revive  when  the  sunbeams  are  yellow  and  warm, 

And  the  flowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping ! 


THE    PREMIUM.  123 

'And  then,  thou  shalt  have  thy  choice,  to  be 
Restored  in  the  Uly  that  decks  the  lea — 
In  the  jessamine  bloom,  the  anemone, 

Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness  : — 
To  melt,  and  be  cast,  in  a  glittering  bead, 
With  the  pearls  that  the  night  scatters  over  the 

mead. 
In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  fire-fly  feed, 

Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness  ; — 

*To  wake,  and  be  raised  from  thy  transient  sleep, 
When  Viola's  mild,  blue  eye  shall  weep, 
In  a  tremulous  tear,  or,  a  diamond  leaf, 

In  a  drop  from  the  unlocked  fountain  ; — 
Or,  leaving  the  valley,  the  meadow  and  heath, 
The  streamlet,  the  flowers,  and  all  beneath. 
To  go  and  be  w^ove  in  the  silvery  wreath 

Encirchng  the  brow  of  the  mountain ! 

*  Or,  wouldst  thou  return  to  a  home  on  the  skies^ 
To  shine  in  the  Iris  I  '11  let  thee  arise. 
And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes 

A  pencil  of  sunbeams  blending  ! 
But,  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  Earth, 
I  '11  give  thee  a  new,  and  a  vernal  birth. 
When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  primal  worth. 

And  never  regret  descending  !' 

'  Then,  I  will  drop,'  said  the  trusting  Flake, 
But  bear  it  in  mind  that  the  choice  I  make 
Is  not  in  the  flowers,  nor  the  dew  to  awake, 

Nor  the  mist  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning. 
For,  things  of  thyself,  they  expire  with  thee  ; 
But  those  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me, — 
They  rise,  and  will  live  from  thy  dust  set  free, 

To  the  regions  above  returning. 


124  THE    PREMIUM. 

*If  true  to  thy  word,  and  just  thou  art, 

Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest  heart, 

Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  me  depart. 

And  return  to  my  native  heaven. 
For  I  would  be  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow, 
From  time  to  time,  in  thy  sight  to  glow, 
So  thou  mayst  remember  the  Flake  of  Snow 

By  the  Promise  that  God  hath  given  I' 

MISS  GOULD. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  NIAGARA  FALLS. 

At  the  point,  where  this  river  issues  from  lake 
Erie,  it  assumes  the  name  of  Niagara.  It  is  some- 
thing more  than  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in  width, 
and  the  broad  and  powerful  current  embosoms 
two  islands ;  one  of  them,  Grand  Isle,  containing 
eleven  thousand  acres,  and  the  other  Navy  island, 
opposite  to  the  British  village  of  Chippeway.  Below 
this  island  the  river  again  becomes  an  unbroken 
sheet,  a  mile  in  width.  For  a  half  a  mile  below,  it 
seems  to  be  waxing  in  wrath  and  power.  Were 
this  rapid  in  any  other  place,  itself  would  be  noted, 
as  one  of  the  sublimest  features  of  river  scenery. 
Along  this  rapid,  the  broad  and  irresistible  mass  of 
rolling  waters  is  not  entirely  whitened,  for  it  is  too 
deep  to  become  so.  But  it  has  something  of  that 
curling  and  angry  aspect,  which  the  sea  exhibits, 
when  swept  by  the  first  bursts  of  a  tempest.  The 
momentum  may  be  conceived,  when  we  are  instruct- 
ed, that  in  half  a  mile  the  river  has  a  descent  of  fifty 
feet.  A  column  of  water,  a  mile  broad,  twenty-five 
feet  deep,  and  propelled  onward  by  the  weight  of  the 
surplus  waters  of  the  whole  prodigious  basin  of  the 
lakes,  rolling  down  this  rapid  declivity,  at  length 


THE  PHEMlOr,  125 

pours  over  the  cataract,  as  if  falling  to  the  central 
depths  of  the  earth. 

Instead  of  sublimity,  the  first  feeling  excited 
by  this  stupendous  cataract  is  amazement.  The 
mind  accustomed  only  to  ordinary  phenomena  and 
common  exhibitions  of  power,  feels  a  revulsion  and 
recoil  from  the  new  train  of  thought  and  feeling 
forced  in  an  instant  upon  it.  There  is  hardly  suffi- 
cient coolness  for  distinct  impressions;  much  less 
for  calculations.  We  witness  the  white  and  terrific 
sheets — for  an  island  on  the  veiy  verge  of  the  cata- 
ract, divides  the  fall — descending  more  than  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  into  the  abyss  below.  We 
feel  the  earth  trembUng  under  our  feet.  The  deaf- 
ening roar  fills  our  ears.  The  spray,  painted  with 
rainbows,  envelopes  us.  We  imagine  the  fathomless 
caverns,  which  such  an  impetus,  continued  for  ages, 
has  worn.  Nature  arrays  herself  before  us,  in  this 
spectacle,  as  an  angry  and  irresistible  power,  that 
has  broken  away  from  the  beneficent  control  of 
Providence. 

When  we  have  gazed  upon  the  spectacle  and 
heard  the  roar  until  the  mind  has  recovered  from  its 
amazement,  we  believe  the  first  obvious  thought  in 
most  minds  is  a  shrmking  comparison  of  the  little- 
ness and  helplessness  of  man,  and  the  insignificance 
of  his  pigmy  efforts,  when  measuring  strength  with 
nature.  Take  it  all  in  all,  it  is  one  of  the  most 
sublime  and  astonishing  spectacles,  seen  on  our 
globe.  The  eye  distinctly  measures  the  amount  of 
the  mass,  and  we  can  hardly  avoid  thinking  with  the 
peasant,  that  the  waters  of  the  upper  world  must 
shortly  be  drained  down  the  cataract.  But  the 
stream  continues  to  pour  down,  and  this  concentrated 
and  impressive  symbol  of  the  power  of  Omnipotence 


126  THE   PllEMtUM. 

Jiroclaims  his  majesty  through  the  forest  from  age 
to  age. 

An  earthquake,  the  eruption  of  a  volcanic  moun» 
tain,  the  conflagration  of  a  city,  are  all  spectacles, 
in  which  terror  is  the  first  and  predominant  emo- 
tion. The  most  impressive  exertion  of  human 
power  is  only  seen  in  the  murderous  and  sickening 
horrors  of  a  conflict  between  two  mighty  armies. 
These,  too,  are  transient  and  contingent  exhibitions 
of  sublimity.  But  after  we  have  stood  an  hour  at 
the  foot  of  these  falls,  after  the  eye  has  been  accus- 
toQied  to  look  upon  them  without  blenching,  after 
the  ear  has  become  familiarized  with  the  deafening 
and  incessant  roar,  when  the  mind  begins  to  calcu- 
late the  grandeur  of  the  scale  of  operations  upon 
which  nature  acts,  then  it  is  that  the  entire  and 
iinmingled  feeling  of  sublimity  rushes  upon  it,  and 
this  is,  probably,  the  place  on  the  whole  globe,  where 
it  is  felt  in  its  most  unmixed  simplicityi     flint. 


SONG  JO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  selt'st  the  weary  labourer  free ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou 

That  send' St  it  from  above  ; 
Appearing  when  heaven's  breath  and  broW 

Are  sweet  as  her  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-oflT  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs,  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirr'd 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 


TUE   rttEMlOI.  127 

Star  of  love's  soft  intemews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse, 
Their  remembrancer  in  heaven 

Of  thriihng  vows,  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

CAMPBELL, 


THE  GENIUS  OF  DEATH. 

What  is  death  ?  'Tis  to  be  free  ! 

No  more  to  love,  or  hope,  or  fear ; 
To  join  the  great  equality ; 
All  alike  are  humbled  there  ! 
The  mighty  grave 
Wraps  lord  and  slave  ; 
Nor  pride  nor  poverty  dares  come 
Within  that  refuge-house,  the  tomb  ! 

Spirit  with  the  drooping  wing. 

And  the  ever  weeping  eye, 
Thou  of  all  earth's  kings  art  king  ! 
Empires  at  thy  footstool  lie ! 
Beneath  thee  stfewed 
Their  multitude 
Sink,  like  waves  upon  the  shore  ; 
Storm  shall  never  rouse  them  more  ! 

What  's  the  grandeur  of  the  earth 

To  the  grandeur  round  thy  throne  1 
Riches,  glory,  beauty,  birth. 
To  thy  kingdom  all  have  gone. 
Before  thee  stand 
The  wondrous  band ; 
Bards,  heroes,  sages,  side  by  side, 
Who  darkened  nations  when  they  died  ! 


128  THE    PREMtUX. 

Earth  has  hosts  ;  but  thou  canst  show 

Many  a  milUon  for  her  one  ; 
Through  thy  gates  the  mortal  flow 
Has  for  countless  years  rolled  on. 
Back  fioni  the  tomb 
No  step  has  come  ; 
There  fixed,  till  the  last  thunder's  sound 
Shall  bid  thy  prisoner  be  unbound  ! 

CROZT. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 


I  MUST  not  omit  to  notice  the  splendid  appearance 
of  the  Harvest  Moox.  The  circumstance  of  this 
moon  rising  several  nights  successively  almost  at 
the  same  time,  immediately  after  sunset,  has  given 
it  an  importance  in  the  eyes  of  farmers  ;  but  it  is 
not  the  less  remarkable  for  its  singular  and  splendid 
beauty.  No  moon  during  the  year  can  bear  any 
comparison  writh  it.  At  its  rising  it  has  a  character 
so  pecuUarly  its  own,  that  the  more  a  person  is  ac- 
customed to  expect  and  to  observe  it,  the  more  it 
strikes  him  with  astonishment.  I  would  advise 
every  one  who  can  go  out  in  the  country,  to  make 
a  practice  of  watching  for  its  rising.  The  warmth 
and  the  dryness  of  the  earth,  the  clearness  and 
balmy  serenity  of  the  atmosphere  at  that  season, 
the  sounds  of  voices  borne  from  distant  fields,  the 
freshness  which  comes  from  the  evening,  combine 
to  make  the  twilight  walk  delicious ;  and  scarcely 
has  the  sun  departed  in  the  west,  when  the  moon 
in  the  east  rises  from  beyond  some  solitary  hill,  or 
from  behind  the  dark  rich  foliage  of  trees,  and  sails 
up  into  the  still  and  transparent  air  in  the  full  mag- 
nificence of  a  world.   It  comes  not  as  in  common,  a 


THE  PREMIUM.  129 

fair  but  flat  disc  on  the  face  of  the  sky, — we  behold 
it  suspended  in  the  crystal  air  in  its  greatness  and 
^otu^^dity;  we  perceive  the  distance  beyond  it  as 
sensibly  as  that  before  it;  and  its  apparent  size  is 
magnificent.  In  a  short  time,  however,  it  has  ac- 
quired a  considerable  altitude — its  apparent  bulk  is 
diminished — its  majestic  grandeur  has  waned,  and 
it  sails  on  its  way  calmly  beautiful,  but  in  nothing 
differing  from  its  usual  character.  howitt. 


SPRING. 

How  beautiful  the  pastime  of  the  spring ! 
Lo  !  newly  waking  from  its  wintry  dream, 
She,  like  a  smiling  infant,  timid  plays 
On  the  green  margin  of  the  sunny  lake, 
Fearing  by  starts,  the  little  breaking  waves, 
(If  riplings,  rather  known  by  sound  than  sight, 
May  haply  so  be  named,)  that  in  the  grass 
Soon  fade  in  murmuring  mirth. 


EXTRACT. 

**  Oh,  what  regards  it  if  a  blind  man  lie 
On  a  green  lawn  or  on  a  steamy  moor 
What  heeds  it  to  the  dead  and  withered  heart, 
Whose  faculty  of  rapture  is  grown  sere. 
Hath  lost  distinction  between  foul  and  fair, 
Whether  it  house  in  gorgeous  palaces, 
Or  mid  wan  graves  and  haggard  signs  of  care ! 
Oh,  there  's  a  grief,  so  with  the  threads  of  being 
Ravelled  and  twined,  it  sickens  every  sense  : 


130  THE  PHEMItTM. 

Then  is  the  swinging  and  monotonous  bell 
Musical  as  the  rich  harp  heard  by  moonhght  J 
Then  are  the  Umbs  insensible  if  they  rest 
On  the  coarse  pallet  or  the  pulpy  down." 

MILMAN. 


THE  SPANISH  BRIGAND. 


A  SHORT  time  after  the  French  war,  and  the  res- 
toration of  Ferdinand  VII.,  whose  conduct  made 
many  of  the  loose  guerilla  parties  continue  out  in 
the  country  as  brigands,  an  English  merchant  ar- 
rived one  evening  at  a  small  mean  town,  at  the  foot 
of  the  Sierra  Morena.  In  the  posada  of  the  place 
where  he  took  up  his  lodgings  for  the  night,  he 
met  a  Spaniard  of  a  commanding  figure,  and  of  a 
sharp,  intelligent,  but  amiable  countenance.  Much 
struck  with  his  appearance,  the  Englishman  entered 
into  conversation  with  hirn,  and  was  still  more  de- 
lighted l)y  his  frank,  spirited  style  of  addrer-s  and 
talking.  Before  supper  was  ready,  the  two  had 
established  that  sort  of  traveller-intimacy  which  is 
not  perhaps  the  less  delightful  because  it  must  finish 
in  a  few  hours,  and  the  parties,  in  all  probability 
never  meet  again  ;  and  when  the  meal  was  served, 
they  sat  down  to  it  together,  each,  apparently,  anx- 
ious to  know  more  of  the  other.  I'hey  conversed 
together  during  the  progress  of  the  supper,  and  long 
after  it  was  over,  until  the  sinking  and  flickering 
lamps  on  the  table  warned  the  Englishman  it  must 
be  time  to  retire  to  rest.  As  he  rose  to  do  so,  the 
Spaniard,  with  all  his  former  frankness  and  gentle- 
manly manner,  asked  him  which  way  his  road  lay 
on  the  morrow.     The  English  merchant  replied. 


THE  PREMirHT.  131 

across  the  Sierra  Morena,  and  indicated  the  road 
he  meant  to  take.  The  Spaniard,  shaking  his  head, 
eaid  he  was  sorry  for  this,  as  he  had  reasons  to  sus- 
pect tliat  that  very  road  at  that  very  moment  was 
beset  by  robbers,  from  whose  numbers  and  activity 
there  was  no  escape.  The  Enghshraan  confessed  that 
this  was  unpleasant  news,  particularly  as  the  affairs 
that  called  him  towards  Madrid  were  urgent.  'But 
cannot  you  stay  v/here  you  are  a  day  or  two!'  re- 
plied the  Spaniard ;  '  by  that  time  they  may  have 
shifted  their  ground,  and  you  may  pass  the  moun- 
tains without  m.eeting  them.'  The  Englishman 
repeated  that  his  business  was  urgent,  said  he  was 
no  coward,  that  he  had  hitherto  travelled  in  Spain 
without  any  misadventure,  and  hoped  still  to  do  so. 
'  But  my  good  Senor,'  replied  the  Spaniard, '  you  will 
not  cross  the  mountains  to-morrow  without  being 
robbeJ,  take  my  word  for  that !'  ''  Well,  if  it  must 
be  so,  let  them  rob  me,'  said  the  English  merchant ; 

*  I  have  little  money  to  lose,  and  they  will  hardly 
take  the  life  of  an  unarmed  and  irresisting  man  !' 

*  They  have  never  been  accustomed  so  to  act — 
let  it  be  said  to  the  honour  of  the  band,  they  are  not 
such  cowardly  assassins,'  replied  the  Spaniard,  who 
was  then  silent,  and  seemed  to  be  musing  to  himself. 
The  Englishman  was  beginning  to  call  up  one  of 
the  servants  of  the  posada,  to  shcvv^  him  to  his  rest- 
ing-place, when  his  companion,  raising  his  hand,  said, 
'  Not  yet,  Senor,  not  yet !  listen !'  and  he  continued 
in  an  under-tone,  '  It  was  my  fortune,  some  time 
since  to  have  to  cross  the  Sien-a  Morena  alone,  like 
you ;  it  was  occupied  then,  as  now,  by  the  Saltea- 
dores ;  but  I  met  a  man,  also  alone,  as  you  have 
met  me,  who  said  he  had  rendered  the  captain  of 
the  band  some  service,  and  that  he  could  give  me  a 
pass  which  would  cause  my  person  and  my  property 


132  TBfi    PttEMItTM. 

to  be  respected  by  the  robbers,  and  enable  me  to 
cross  the  mountains  witli  perfect  safety.'  'A  much 
better  thin^  this  than  a  king's  passport,'  said  the 
astonished  Englishman.  '  I'ray  what  was  it  1  and 
did  it  succeed  ]'  '  It  was  only  a  button,'  replied  the 
Spaniard ;  '  it  did  all  that  had  been  promised,  and 
perhaps  it  has  not  yet  lost  its  charm — I  will  give  it 
you,  here  it  is  !'  After  searching  in  his  pocket,  the 
Spaniard  produced  a  curiously  filagreed  silver  but- 
ton, and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  the  Englishman, 
begging  him  to  be  careful  of  it,  and  to  present  it  to 
any  robbers  that  might  attack  him  in  the  Sierra. 
*But  were  you  really  attacked  on  your  journey?* 
inquired  the  merchant.  '  The  button  was  respected 
by  all  the  robbers  I  met,  and  I  believe  I  saw  them 
all,'  ijaid  the  iSpiuiiard ;  '  but  ask  no  more  questions, 
and  take  care  of  the  button  !  to-morrow  you  will 
see  whether  it  has  lost  its  charm.'  With  many 
thanks,  the  Englishman  took  his  leave,  and  went  to 
bed.  On  the  following  morning,  when  he  continued 
his  journey,  the  silver  button  ran  in  his  head  for 
some  time.  But  it  was  not  until  noon,  as  he  wa3 
toiling  up  one  of  the  most  rugged  of  the  mountain 
paths,  that  he  had  the  opportunity  of  trying  its  vir- 
tue. There  his  guide,  who  rode  before  him,  wag 
suddenly  knocked  off  his  mule  by  a  blow  from  the 
butt-end  of  a  musket,  and  the  next  instant  three 
other  guns  were  levelled  at  the  Englishman's  breast, 
by  men  who  stepped  from  behind  a  rock.  The  at- 
tack was  so  sudden,  that  his  ideas  and  recollection 
were  disturbed,  and  he  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket, 
brought  out  his  purse,  and  delivered  it  to  the  robbers, 
who  were  calling  him  all  sorts  of  oj)prol)rious  names, 
before  he  thought  of  his  silver  button.  But  when 
the  recollection  came  to  his  mind  and  he  produced 
it,  much  doubting  of  its  eflicacy,  the  oaths  of  the 


TUE   PEEXIU.M.  133 

Salteadores  were  stopped  at  once,  as  though  a  sa- 
cred relic  had  been  held  before  their  eves;  thev 
returned  him  his  purse,  earnestly  entreating  his 
pardon  for  all  that  had  happened,  and  informed  him 
that  it  was  their  bounden  duty  to  see  the  bearer  of 
that  button  safe  across  the  mountains.  Accordingly, 
on  went  the  merchant  with  the  brigands  for  liis 
guard,  he  blessing  the  silver  button,  and  they  show- 
ing him  evciy  possible  attention  and  respect.  On 
their  way  they  met  with  other  robbers,  which  prov- 
ed how  formidable  was  the  band,  and  how  impossi- 
ble it  would  have  been  to  escape  them  without  the 
charmed  button.  At  length  they  came  to  a  low,  soU- 
tary  house  in  a  wild  dell,  far  away  from  the  beaten 
path  across  the  Sierra,  which  they  had  abandoned  for 
rocks  that  seemed  never  to  have  been  trodden.  Here 
the  merchant  was  told  he  might  stop  and  refresh  him- 
self. Nothing  loath,  he  dismounted,  and  turned  to 
the  door,  when  his  companion  at  the  posada  of  the 
preceding  evening — the  donor  of  the  magical  but- 
ton, met  him  on  the  threshold,  with  the  words  and 
gestures  of  an  hospitable  welcome.  His  dress  was 
changed — he  now  wore  a  splendid  kind  of  uniform, 
the  jacket  of  which  was  of  velvet,  embroidered  with 
gold;  but  the  Englishman  recognized  his  command- 
ing figure  and  impressive  countenance  in  an  instant, 
and  gave  him  his  hand  as  a  friend.  '  I  got  here  be- 
fore you,'  said  the  captain  of  the  banditti,  for  such 
in  fact  was  the  donor  of  the  button,  '  and  have  pre- 
pared a  good  dinner  for  you,  being  very  certain,  that 
Vfhat  I  gave  you  last  night  would  bring  you  in 
safety  under  my  roof.'  The  Englishman  expressed 
his  gratitude,  and  they  sat  down  to  dine.  The 
bandit's  dishes  were  savoury  and  good,  and  his 
wine  was  better.  As  the  wine  warmed  the  En- 
glishman, he   again  expressed   his  gratitude,  and 


134  THE  PKExir^r. 

then  ventured  to  say  how  astonished  he  was  that  3 
person  of  his  host's  manners,  and  one  capable  of 
such  kind  and  generous  feelings  and  actions,  could 
lead  such  a  kind  of  life.  The  robber  drew  his 
hand  across  his  dark  brow  and  fiery  eyes,  and  said, 
'  These  are  times  when  thieves  and  traitors  thrive  in 
the  royal  court  and  the  offices  of  government,  and 
honest  patriots  are  driven  to  the  highway.  As  a 
guerilla,  I  shed  my  blood  for  my  country ;  for  my 
king,  who,  when  he  returned,  would  have  left  me 
to  starve  or  to  beg!  But  no  matter — this  is  no 
business  of  yours.  I  met  3-ou,  liked  your  manners, 
and  have  saved  you ! — that  is  enough !  say  no 
more !'  The  Englishman  of  course  desisted,  and 
soon  after  rose  to  take  his  leave.  The  captain, 
who  recovered  his  good  humour,  told  him  he  should 
have  an  escort  yet  a  little  farther,  and  be  put  in  the 
route  he  wished  to  follow.  The  merchant  would 
then  have  returned  the  silver  button,  but  the  rob- 
ber insisted  on  his  keeping  it.  '  You,  or  some 
friend  of  yours,  may  have  to  pass  this  way  again,* 
said  he,  'and  whoever  has  the  button  to  produce, 
will  be  respected  as  you  have  been  respected !  Go 
with  God !  and  say  notliing  as  to  what  has  hap- 
pened between  you  and  me  and  mine !  Adios !' 
The  merchant's  farewell  was  an  earnest  and  cordial 
one.  Guided  by  the  brigands,  he  soon  reached  the 
beaten  road  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  mountains, 
and  would  there  have  given  them  some  money  for 
the  trouble  he  had  caused  them.  They  said  they 
had  their  captain's  strict  commands  against  this — 
they  would  not  accept  a  real,  but  left  him,  wishing 
him  a  happy  journey.  Some  time — I  believe  some 
years  after  this  adventure — the  English  merchant 
heard  with  deep  regret  that  the  Spanish  robber- 
chief,  whom  he  described  as  being  one  of  the  hand- 


THE  PREMIUM.  135 

somest  men  he  ever  beheld,  had  been  betrayed  into 
the  hands  of  government,  and  put  to  a  cruel  and 
ignominious  death.  brockedo>'. 


ARTS  AND  SCIENCES  MUTUALLY  DEPENDENT. 

We  may  remark  the  beautiful  process,  by  which 
Providence  has  so  interlaced  and  wrought  up  to- 
gether the  pursuits,  interests,  and  wants  of  our  na- 
ture, that  the  philosopher,  whose  home  seems  less 
on  earth  than  among  the  stars,  requires,  for  the 
prosecution  of  his  studies,  the  aid  of  numerous  arti- 
ficers in  various  branches  of  mechanical  industry ; 
and,  in  return,  furnishes  the  most  important  facili- 
ties to  the  humblest  branches  of  manual  labour.  Let 
us  take,  as  a  single  instance,  that  of  astronomical 
science.  It  may  be  safely  said,  that  the  wonderful 
discoveries  of  modern  astronomy,  and  the  philoso- 
phical system  depending  upon  them,  could  not 
have  existed,  but  for  the  telescope.  The  want  of 
the  telescope  kept  astronomical  science  in  its  in- 
fancy among  the  ancients.  Although  Pythagoras, 
one  of  the  earliest  Greek  philosophers,  by  a  fortu- 
nate exercise  of  sagacity,  conceived  the  elements 
of  the  Copernican  system,  yet  we  find  no  general 
and  practical  improvement  resulting  from  it. 

It  was  only  from  the  period  of  the  discoveries 
made  by  the  telescope,  that  the  science  advanced, 
with  sure  and  rapid  progress.  Now  the  astrono- 
mer does  not  make  telescopes.  I  presume  it  would 
be  impossible  for  a  person,  who  employed  in  the 
abstract  study  of  astronomical  science,  time  enough 
to  comprehend  its  profound  investigations,  to  learn 
and  practise  the  trade  of  making  glass.  It  is  men- 
tioned, as  a  remarkable  versatility  of  talent  in  one 


136  THE    PREMIUM. 

or  two  eminent  observers,  that  they  have  superin- 
tended the  cutting  and  polishing  of  the  glasses  of 
their  own  telescopes.  But  I  presume  if  there  ne- 
ver had  been  a  telescope,  till  some  scientific  astro- 
nomer had  learned  to  mix,  melt,  and  mould  glass, 
such  a  thing  would  never  have  been  heard  of.  It 
is  not  less  true,  that  those  employed  in  making  the 
glass  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  expected 
to  acquire  the  scientific  knowledge,  requisite  for 
carrying  on  those  arduous  calculations,  applied  to 
bring  into  a  system  the  discoveries  made  by  the 
magnifying  power  of  the  telescope.  I  might  extend 
the  same  remark  to  the  other  materials,  of  which 
a  telescope  consists.  It  cannot  be  used  to  any  pur- 
pose of  nice  observation,  without  being  very  care- 
fully mounted,  on  a  frame  of  strong  metal ;  which 
depends  on  the  united  labours  of  the  mathematical 
instrument-maker  and  the  brass-founder. 

Here  then,  in  taking  but  one  single  step  out  of 
the  philosopher's  obsen-atory,  we  find  he  needs  an 
instrument,  to  be  produced  by  the  united  labours  of 
the  mathematical  instrument-maker,  the  brass-foun- 
der, the  glass  polisher,  and  the  maker  of  glass,  four 
trades.  He  must  also  have  an  astronomical  clock, 
and  it  would  be  easy  to  count  up  half  a  dozen  trades, 
which  directly  or  indirectly  are  connected  in  making 
a  clock.  But  let  us  go  back  to  the  object-glass  of 
the  telescope.  A  glassfactory  requires  a  building 
and  furnaces.  The  man  who  makes  the  glass,  does 
not  make  the  building.  But  the  stone  and  brick- 
mason,  the  carpenter,  and  the  blacksmith  must  fur- 
nish the  greater  part  of  the  labour  and  skill,  re- 
quired to  construct  the  building.  When  it  is  built, 
a  large  quantity  of  fuel,  wood  and  wood-coal,  or 
mineral  coal  of  various  kinds,  or  all  together,  must  be 
provided ;  and  then  the  materials  of  which  the  glass 


THE  PREMIUM.  137 

is  made,  and  with  which  it  is  coloured,  some  of 
which  are  furnished  by  commerce  from  different 
and  distant  regions,  and  must  be  brought  in  ships 
across  the  sea. 

We  cannot  take  up  any  one  of  these  trades,  with- 
out immediately  finding  that  it  connects  itself  with 
numerous  others.  Take,  for  instance,  the  mason 
who  builds  the  furnace.  He  does  not  make  his 
own  bricks,  nor  burn  his  own  lime  ;  in  common 
cases,  the  bricks  come  from  one  place,  the  lime 
from  another,  the  sand  from  another.  The  brick- 
maker  does  not  cut  down  his  own  wood.  It  is 
carted  or  brought  in  boats  to  his  yard.  The  man 
who  carts  it  does  not  make  his  own  wagon ;  nor 
does  the  person  who  brings  it  in  boats,  build  his 
own  boat.  The  man  who  makes  the  wagon,  does 
not  make  its  tire.  The  blacksmith,  who  makes  the 
tire,  does  not  smelt  the  ore ;  and  the  forgeman  who 
smelts  the  ore,  does  not  build  his  own  furnace, 
(and  there  we  get  back  to  the  point  whence  we 
started,)  nor  dig  his  own  mine.  The  man  who  digs 
the  mine,  does  not  make  the  pick-axe  with  which 
he  digs  it ;  nor  the  pump  with  which  he  keeps 
out  the  water.  The  man  who  makes  the  pump, 
did  not  discover  the  principle  of  atmosplieric  pres- 
sure, which  led  to  pump-making  :  that  was  done  by 
a  mathematician  at  Florence,  experimenting  in  his 
chamber,  on  a  glass  tube.  And  here  we  come  back 
again  to  our  glass  ;  and  to  an  instance  of  the  close 
connexion  of  scientific  research  with  practical  art. 
It  is  plain,  that  this  enumeration  might  be  pursued 
till  every  art  and  every  science  were  shown  to  run 
into  every  other.  No  one  can  doubt  this,  who  will 
go  over  the  subject  in  his  own  mind,  beginning  with 
any  one  of  the  processes  of  mining  and  working 
metals,  of  ship-building,  and  navigation,  and  the 


138  THE  PREMIUK. 

Other  branches  of  art  and  industry,  pursued  in  civi- 
lized communities. 

If  then,  on  the  one  hand,  the  astronomer  de- 
pends fur  his  telescope  on  the  uhimate  product 
of  so  many  arts ;  in  return,  his  observations  are 
the  basis  of  an  astronomical  system  and  of  calcu- 
lations of  the  movements  of  the  heavenly  bodies, 
which  furnish  the  mariner  with  his  best  guide 
across  the  ocean.  The  prudent  ship-master  would 
no  more  think  of  sailing  for  India,  without  his 
Bowditch's  Practical  JS'avigator,  than  he  would 
without  his  compass ;  and  this  Navigator  contains 
tables,  drawn  from  the  highest  walks  of  astronomi- 
cal science.  Every  first,  mate  of  a  vessel,  who 
works  a  lunar  observation,  to  ascertain  the  ship's 
longitude,  employs  tables,  in  which  the  most  won- 
derful discoveries  and  calculations  of  La  Place,  and 
Newton,  and  Bowditch,  are  interwoven. 

I  mention  this  as  but  one  of  the  cases,  in  which  as- 
tronomical science  promotes  the  service  and  conve- 
nience of  common  life  ;  and  perhaps,  when  we  con- 
sider the  degree  to  which  the  modern  extension  of 
navigation  connects  itself  with  industry  in  all  its 
branches,  this  may  be  thought  sufficient.  I  will 
only  add  that  the  cheap  convenience  of  an  almanac, 
which  enters  into  the  comforts  of  every  fireside  in 
the  country,  could  not  be  enjoyed,  but  for  the  la- 
bours and  studies  of  the  profoundest  philosophers. 
Not  that  great  learning  or  talent  is  now  required 
to  execute  the  astronomical  calculations  of  an  al- 
manac, although  no  inconsiderable  share  of  each 
is  needed  for  this  purpose ;  but  because,  even  to 
perform  these  calculations  requires  the  aid  of  tables, 
w^hich  have  been  gradually  formed  on  the  basis  of 
the  profoundest  investigations  of  the  long  line  of 
philosophers,  who  have  devoted  themselves  to  this 


THE  PREMirjr.  139 

branch  of  science.  For,  as  we  observed  on  the 
mechanical  side  of  the  illustration,  it  was  not  one 
trade  alone,  which  was  required  to  furnish  the  phi- 
losopher with  his  instrument,  but  a  great  variety  ; 
so,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  the  philosopher  in 
one  department,  who  creates  a  science  out  of  no- 
thing. The  obsers^ing  astronomer  furnishes  mate- 
rials to  the  calculating  astronomer,  and  the  calcula- 
tor derives  methods  from  the  pure  mathematician  : 
and  a  long  succession  of  each  for  ages  must  unite 
their  labours,  in  a  great  result.  Without  the  geo- 
metry of  the  Greeks,  and  the  algebra  of  the  Arabs, 
the  infinitesimal  analysis  of  JVewton  and  Leibnitz 
would  never  have  been  invented. 

Examples  and  illustrations  equally  instructive 
might  be  found  in  every  other  branch  of  industry. 
The  man,  who  will  go  into  a  cotton-mill,  and  con- 
template it  from  the  great  water-wheel,  that  gives 
the  first  movement,  (and  still  more  from  the  steam- 
engine,  should  that  be  the  moving  power,)  who  will 
obsers'e  the  parts  of  the  machinery,  and  the  various 
processes  of  the  fabric,  till  he  reaches  the  hydraulic 
press  with  which  it  is  made  into  a  bale,  and  the 
canal  or  rail-road  by  which  it  is  sent  to  market, 
may  find  every  branch  of  trade  and  every  depart- 
ment of  science  literally  crossed,  intertwined,  inter- 
woven with  every  other,  like  the  woof  and  the  warp 
of  the  article  manufactured.  Not  a  little  of  the 
spinning  machinery  is  constructed  on  principles 
drawn  from  the  demonstrations  of  transcendental 
mathematics ;  and  the  processes  of  bleaching  and  dy- 
ing, now  practised,  are  the  results  of  the  most  pro 
found  researches  of  modern  chemistry. 

And  if  this  does  not  satisfy  the  inquirer,  let  him 
trace  the  cotton  to  the  plantation,  where  it  grew,  in 
Georgia  or  Alabama ;  the  indigo  to  Bengal ;  the 


140  THE  PREMIUM. 

oil  to  the  olive-gardens  of  Italy,  or  the  fishing- 
grounds  of  the  Pacific  Ocean;  let  him  consider 
Whitney's  cotton-gin ;  Whittemore's  carding-ma- 
chine;  the  power-loom ;  and  the  spinning  appara- 
tus ;  and  all  the  arts,  trades,  and  sciences,  directly 
or  indirectly  connected  with  these  ;  and  I  believe 
he  will  soon  agree,  that  one  might  start  from  a  yard 
of  coarse  printed  cotton,  which  costs  ten  cents,  and 
prove  out  of  it,  as  out  of  a  text,  that  every  art  and 
science  under  heaven  had  been  concerned  in  its 
fabric.  e,  everett. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIFE. 

I  DREAMED — T  saw  a  little  rosy  child, 
With  flaxen  ringlets  in  a  garden  playing ; 

Now  stopping  here,  and  then  afar  oflf  straying, 
As  flower  or  butterfly  his  feet  beguiled. 

'Twas  changed.     One   summer's  day  I  stepped 
aside. 
To  let  him  pass  ;  his  face  had  manhood's  seeming. 
And  that  full  eye  of  blue  was  fondly  beaming 

On  a  fair  maiden  whom  he  called  "  his  Bride !" 
Once  more;  'twas  autumn,  and  the  cheerful  fire 

I  saw  a  group  of  youthful  forms  surrounding. 

The  room  with  harmless  pleasantry  resounding, 
And  in  the  midst  I  marked  the  smiling  Sire. 

The  heavens  were  clouded  ! — and  I  heard  the  tone 

Of  a  slow  moving  bell — the  white  haired  man 
was  gone.  axox. 


WOMAN. 

Ye  are  stars  of  the  night,  ye  are  gems  of  the  mom, 
Ye  are  dew-drops,  whose  lustre  illumines  the  thorn ; 


THE  PRE3IltT».  141 

And  rayless  that  night  is,  that  morning  unblest, 
When  no  beam  in  your  eye  lights  up  peace  in  the 

breast, 
And  the  sharp  thorn  of  sorrow  sinks  deep  in  the 

heart, 
Till  the  sweet  lip  of  woman  assuages  the  smart ; 
'Tis  hers  o'er  the  couch  of  misfortune  to  bend, 
In  fondness  a  lover,  in  firmness  a  friend ; 
And  prosperity's  hour,  be  it  ever  confest, 
From  woman  receives  both  refinement  and  zest ; 
And  adorned  by  the  bays,  or  enwreathed  with  the 

willow, 
Her  smile  is  our  meed,  and  her  bosom  our  pillow. 

ASOX. 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

There  are  two  things  that  to  a  marvellous  degree 
bring  people  under  subjection — moral  and  corporeal 
fear.  The  most  dissolute  are  held  in  restraint  by 
the  influence  of  moral  worth,  and  there  are  few  who 
would  engage  in  a  quarrel  if  they  were  certain  that 
defeat  or  death  would  be  the  consequence.  Crom- 
well obtained,  and  we  may  add,  maintained  his 
ascendency  over  the  people  of  England,  by  his 
earnest  and  continually  directed  eflforts  towards 
these  two  important  ends.  His  court  was  a  rare 
example  of  irreproachable  conduct,  from  which  all 
debauchery  and  immorality  were  banished  ;  while 
such  was  his  deep  and  intimate,  though  mysterious 
acquaintance  with  every  occurrence  throughout  the 
commonwealth,  its  subjects  had  the  certainty  of 
knowing  that,  sooner  or  later,  whatever  crimes  they 
committed  would  of  a  surety  reach  the  ear  of  the 
protector.     His  natural  abiUties  must  always  have 


142  THE   PRE3ilUM. 

been  of  the  highest  order,  though  in  the  early  part 
pf  his  career,  he  discovered  none  of  those  extraor- 
dinary talents  that  afterwards  gained  him  so  much 
applause,  and  worked  so  upon  the  allections  of  the 
hearers  and  standers-by.  His  mmd  may  he  com- 
pared to  one  of  those  valuable  manuscripts  that  had 
long  been  rolled  up  and  kept  hidden  from  vulgar 
e3-es,  but  which  exhibits  some  new  proof  of  wisdom 
at  each  unfolding.  It  has  been  well  said  by  a 
philosopher,  w^hose  equal  the  world  has  not  known 
since  his  day,  '  that  a  place  showeth  the  man.'  Of 
a  certainty,  Cromwell  had  no  sooner  possessed  the 
opportunity  so  to  do,  than  he  showed  to  the  whole 
world  that  he  was  destined  to  govern.  *  Some  men 
achieve  greatness,  some  men  are  bom  to  greatness, 
and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them.'  With 
Cromwell  greatness  was  achieved.  He  was  the 
architect  of  his  own  fortunes,  owing  little  to  what 
is  called  '  chance,'  less  to  patronage,  and  still  less 
to  crime,  if  we  except  the  one  sad  blot  upon  the 

{)age  of  his  own  historj',  as  connected  with  that  of 
lis  countiy.  There  appears  in  his  character  but  a 
small  portion  of  that  which  is  evil,  blended  with 
much  that  is  undoubtedly  good.  Although  his 
public  speeches  were,  for  the  most  part,  ambiguous 
— leaving  others  to  pick  out  his  meaning — or  more 
frequently  still,  having  no  meaning  to  pick  out,  be- 
ing words,  words,  words — strung  of  mouldy  sen- 
tences, Scriptural  phrases,  foolish  exclamations,  and 
such-hke ;  yet  when  necessary,  he  showed  that  he 
could  sufhciently  command  his  style,  delivering 
himself  with  so  much  energ)-,  pith,  propriety,  and 
strength  of  expression,  that  it  was  commonly  said 
of  him  under  such  circumstances,  '  every  word  he 
spoke  was  a  thing.'  But  the  strongest  indication 
of  his  vast  abilities  was,  the  extraorcinary  tact  with 


THE    PttEMItTM,  143 

which  he  entered  into,  dissected,  and  scrutinised 
the  nature  of  human  kind.  No  man  ever  dived 
into  the  manners  and  minds  of  those  around  him 
with  greater  penetration,  or  more  rapidly  discovered 
their  natural  talents  and  tempers.  If  he  chanced  to 
hear  of  a  person  fit  for  his  purpose,  whether  as  a 
minister,  a  soldier,  an  artisan,  a  preacher,  or  a  spy, 
no  matter  howr  previously  obscure,  he  sent  for  hira 
forthwith,  and  employed  him  in  the  way  in  which 
he  could  be  made  most  useful,  and  answer  best  the 
purpose  of  his  employer.  Upon  this  most  admira- 
ble system  (a  system  in  which,  unhappily,  he  has 
had  but  few  imitators  among  modern  statesmen,) 
depended  in  a  great  degree  his  success.  His  devo- 
tion has  been  sneered  at;  but  it  has  never  been 
proved  to  have  been  insincere.  With  how  much 
more  show  of  justice  may  we  consider  it  to  have 
been  founded  upon  a  solid  and  upright  basis,  when 
we  recollect  that  his  whole  outward  deportment 
spoke  its  truth  !  Those  who  decry  him  as  a  fanatic, 
ought  to  bethink  themselves  that  religion  was  the 
chivalry  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  Had  Crom- 
well been  born  a  few  centuries  earlier,  he  would 
have  headed  the  crusades,  with  as  much  bravery, 
and  far  better  results  than  our  noble-hearted,  but 
wrong-headed,  Coeur  de  liion.  It  was  no  great 
compliment  that  was  passed  on  him  by  the  French 
minister,  when  he  called  the  protector  '  the  first  cap- 
tain of  the  age.'  His  courage  and  conduct  in  the 
field  were  undoubtedly  admirable :  he  had  a  dignity 
of  soul  which  the  greatest  dangers  aud  diificulties 
rather  animated  than  discouraged,  and  his  discipline 
and  government  of  the  army,  in  all  respects,  was 
the  wonder  of  the  world.  It  was  no  diminution  of 
this  part  of  his  character,  that  he  was  wary  in  his 
conJuct,  and  that,  after  he  was  declared  protector 


144  Tttfi   FHEMltTM. 

he  wore  a  coat  of  mail  concealed  beneath  his  dress. 
Less  caution  than  he  made  use  of,  in  the  place  he 
held,  and  surrounded  as  he  was  by  secret  and  open 
enemies,  would  have  deserved  the  name  of  negli- 
gence. As  to  his  political  sincerity,  which  many 
think  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  religious  opinions, 
he  was,  to  the  full,  as  honest  as  the  first  or  second 
Charles.  Of  a  truth,  that  same  sincerity,  it  would 
appear,  is  no  kingly  virtue  !  Cromwell  loved  jus- 
tice as  he  loved  his  own  life,  and  wherever  he  was 
compelled  to  be  arbitrary,  it  was  only  were  his  au- 
thority was  controverted,  which,  as  things  then 
were,  it  was  not  only  right  to  establish  for  his  own 
sake,  but  for  the  peace  and  security  of  the  country 
over  whose  proud  destinies  he  had  been  called  to 
govern.  *  The  dignity  of  the  crown,'  to  quote  his 
own  words,  '  was  upon  the  account  of  the  nation, 
of  which  the  king  was  only  the  representative  head, 
and  therefore,  the  nation  being  still  the  same,  he 
would  have  the  same  respect  paid  to  his  ministers 
as  if  Le  had  been  a  king.'  England  ought  to  write 
the  name  of  Cromwell  in  letters  of  gold,  when  she 
remembers  that,  within  a  space  of  four  or  five  years, 
he  avenged  all  the  insults  that  had  been  lavishly  flung 
upon  her  by  every  country  in  Europe,  throughout 
a  long,  disastrous,  and  most  perplexing  civil  war. 
Gloriously  did  he  retrieve  the  credit  that  had  been 
mouldering  and  decaying  during  two  weak  and  dis- 
creditable reigns  of  nearly  fifty  years'  continuance — 
gloriously  did  he  establish  and  extend  his  country's 
authority  and  influence  in  remote  nations — glorious- 
ly acquire  the  real  mastery  of  the  British  Channel 
— gloriously  send  forth  fleets  that  went  and  con- 
quered, and  never  sullied  the  union  flag  by  an  act 
of  dishonour  or  dissimulation.  Not  a  single  Briton, 
during  the  protectorate,  but  could  demand  and  re- 


THE    PHEMIUM.  145 

ceive  either  reparation  or  revenge  for  injury,  whether 
it  came  from  France,  from  Spain,  from  any  open  foe 
or  treacherous  ally ;  not  an  oppressed  foreigner 
claimed  his  protection,  but  it  was  immediately  and 
effectually  granted.  Were  things  to  be  compared 
to  this  in  the  reign  of  either  Charles  1  England 
may  blush  at  the  remembrance  of  the  insults  she 
sustained  during  the  reigns  of  the  first  most  amia- 
ble, yet  most  weak — of  the  second  most  admired, 
yet  most  contemptible — of  these  legal  kings.  What 
must  she  think  of  the  treatment  of  the  elector  pala- 
tine, though  he  was  son-in-law  to  King  James  1 
And  let  her  ask  herself  how  the  Duke  of  Rohan 
was  assisted  in  the  Protestant  war  at  Rochelle, 
notwithstanding  the  solemn  engagement  of  King 
Charles  under  his  own  hand !  Alas  !  alas  !  the 
page  of  history  is  but  a  sad  one ;  and  the  Stuarts 
and  the  Cromv/ells,  the  roundheads  and  the  cava- 
liers, the  pennons  and  the  drums,  are  but  part  and 
parcel  of  the  same  dust — the  dust  we,  who  are 
made  of  dust  animated  for  a  time  by  a  living  spirit, 
now  tread  upon  !  Their  words,  that  wrestled  witla 
the  winds  and  mounted  on  the  air,  have  left  no 
trace  along  that  air  whereon  they  sported: — the 
clouds  in  all  their  beauty  cap  our  isle  with  their 
magnificence,  a-s  in  those  by -gone  days ;  the  rivera 
are  as  blue,  the  seas  as  salt;  the  flowers,  those 
sweet  things  !  remain  fresh  within  our  fields,  a3 
when  God  called  them  into  existence  in  Paradise, 
and  are  bright  as  ever.  But  the  change  is  over  us, 
as  it  has  been  over  them:  we,  too,  are  passing. 
O  England  !  what  should  this  teach  1  Even  three 
things — wisdom,  justice,  and  mercy.  •'  Wisdom  to 
watch  ourselves,  and  then  our  rulers,  so  that  we  nei- 
ther do  nor  suffer  wrong ;  justice  to  the  memory  of 
the  mighty  dead,  whether  born  to  thrones  or  foot- 
K 


146  THB  tHEMlUM. 

Stools ;  mercy  inasmuch  as  we  shall  deeply  need  it 
from  our  successors.  ajtox. 


HAUNT  FOR  A  SUMMER  NOON. 

There  is  a  cave, 
All  overgrown  with  trailing  odorous  plants, 
Which  curtain  out  the  day  with  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  paved  with  veined  emerald,  and  a  fountain 
Leaps  in  the  midst  with  an  awakening  sound. 
From  its  curved  roof  the  mountain's  frozen  tears, 
Like  snow,  or  silver,  or  long  diamond  spires. 
Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubtful  light ; 
And  there  is  heard  the  ever-moving  air, 
Whispering  without  from  tree  to  tree,  and  birds, 
And  bees ;  and  all  around  are  mossy  seats, 
And  the  rough  walls  are  clothed  with  long  soft  grass} 
A  simple  dwelling,  which  shall  be  our  own  ; 
Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and  change, 
As  the  world  ebbs  and  flows,  ourselves  unchanged. 

SHELLET. 


THE  LANDSCAPE. 


Be^jeath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mist, 
As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky. 
With  azure  waves  which  burst  in  silver  light, 
Some  Indian  vale.     Behold  it,  rolling  on 
Under  the  curdling  winds,  an-d  islanding 
The  peak  whereon  we  stand,  midway,  around 
Encinctured  by  the  dark  and  blooming  forests. 
Dim  twilight  lawns,  and  stream-illumined  caves, 
And  wind-enchanted  shapes  of  wandering  mist; 
And  far  on  high  the  keen  sky-cleaving  mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sun-like  radiance  fling 


fBE  PREMIUM.  147 

The  dawn,  as  lifted  ocean's  dazzling  spray, 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamp-like  water-drops. 
The  vale  is  girdled  with  their  walls,  a  howl 
Of  cataracts  from  their  thaw-cloven  ravines 
Satiates  the  listening  wind,  continuous,  vast, 
Awful  as  silence.     Hark  !  the  rushing  snow ! 
The  sun-awakened  avalanche  I  whose  mass, 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered  there 
Flake  after  flake,  in  world-defying  minds 
As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some  great  truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  mountains  now. 

SHELLST. 


A  WOOD  SCENE. 


The  oak, 

Expanding  its  immeasurable  arms, 

Embraces  the  light  beach.     The  pyramids 

Of  the  tali  cedar,  overarching,  frame 

Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below, 

Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky, 

The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 

Tremulous  and  pale.    Like  restless  serpents,  clothed 

In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 

Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 

The  gay  trunks,  and  as  gamesome  infant's  eyes. 

With  gentle  meanings  and  most  innocent  wiles. 

Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love, 

These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs, 

Uniting  their  close  union ;  the  woven  leaves 

Make  net-work  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day. 

And  the  night's  noontide  clearness,  mutable 

As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.     Soft  mossy  lawns 


148  TBE    PREMIUM. 

Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells, 
Fragi-ant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed  with  blooms 
Minute  yet  beautiful.     One  darkest  glen 
Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-rose,  twined  with 

jasmine, 
A  soul-dissolving  odour,  to  invite 
To  some  more  lovely  mystery.     Through  the  dell, 
Silence  and  Twilight  here,  twin-sisters,  keep 
Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  ihe  shades 
Like  vaporous  shapes  half  seen ;  beyond,  a  well, 
Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent  wave 
Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above. 
And  each  depending  leaf,  and  eveiy  speck 
Of  azure  sky,  darting  between  their  chasms ; 
Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  niiiTor  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 
Between  one  foliaged  lattice  tvvinkling  fair, 
Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon. 
Or  gorgeous  insect  floating  motionless. 
Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of  noon. 

SHELLET. 


AMERICAN  DEER-HUNT. 

DuRi^TG  a  week's  rest  at  a  retired  village,  I  casu- 
ally mentioned  that  I  had  never  seen  a  deer-hunt.  A 
party  was  immediately  formed ;  and  the  next  morning, 
after  an  early  breakfast,  we  set  out  under  a  perfectly 
cloudless  sky,  and  through  these  immense  woods, 
whose  dying  leaves,  betraying  the  touch  of  the  au- 
tumn frosts,  covered  the  whole  face  of  nature  as 
Avith  a  mantle  of  the  most  brilliant  and  opposite 
colours.  Here  a  tree,  with  foliage  of  the  brightest 
orange,  mingled  its  branches  with  one  of  the  deep- 


THE  PREMIUM!.  149 

est  gory  red  ;  while  among  the  oaks,  which  dis- 
played all  the  various  shades  of  the  rainbow,  here 
and  there  towered  the  erect  and  lofty  pine,  with  its 
deep,  dark,  and  unfading  green.  This  tract  of  land 
was  but  a  few  years  ago  ow^ned  and  occupied  by 
the  Indians,  who,  in  order  to  facilitate  their  hunt- 
ing by  clearing  the  ground,  were  accustomed  to  set 
on  fire  what  they  term  the  iinder-briish.  The 
pine-trees  frequently  suffered  in  the  operation ;  and 
their  burnt  and  blasted  stumps  are  often  discerned 
by  the  solitary  traveller,  Uke  the  frowning  ghosts 
of  that  high-spirited  and  ruined  race,  lingering 
among  the  places,  hallowed  by  habit  and  tradition, 
where  the  ashes  of  the  heroic  fathers  sleep.  In  the 
summer  they  contrast  strangely  with  the  bright  and 
tender  green,  the  delicate  sweet  flowers  which  spring 
up  around  their  root,  and  the  fresh  and  feininine 
loveliness  of  the  vines,  which  sometimes  cling  with 
living  tendrils  to  their  scathed,  dead  trunks.  At  a 
large  and  commodious  dwelling,  although  construct- 
ed of  logs,  and  by  its  appearance  fully  entitled  to 
the  appellation  of  hut,  we  found  a  good-natured, 
hospitable  old  gentleman,  with  horns,  guns,  and 
hounds.  A  dozen  of  the  latter  were  assembled  in 
the  road  before  the  house,  fully  prepared  to  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  the  sport.  No  one  could  compre- 
hend what  was  going  on  more  clearly  than  these 
worthy,  impatient  gentlemen.  They  were  fine  ani- 
mals, with  fine  names,  and  in  their  eagerness  and 
joy  frequently  drew  upon  them  the  rebuke  of  the 
old  man.  Scarcely  any  brute  creature  expresses 
his  sensations  with  more  manifest  meaning  than  a 
dog.  *  *  *  It  is  necessary  that  a  hunting  party 
should  consist  of  at  least  six  or  seven.  One  or  two, 
termed  drivers,  with  horns,  horses,  and  hounds,  ride 
to  the  grounds  frequented  by  the  deer,  and  the  dogs 


150  THE    PREMItrX. 

soon  catch  the  scent.  There  are  certain  knoAvn 
passages  of  the  forest  through  which  the  timid  ani- 
mals, when  affrighted,  generally  attempt  to  escape. 
One  individual  of  the  party  is  stationed  at  each  of 
these  ;  and  in  such  an  opening  I  found  myself  that 
bright  morning,  alone  in  the  midst  of  these  hushed 
and  pathless  forests,  lurking,  I  almost  thought,  like 
a  murderer,  with  my  loaded  piece,  till  the  defence- 
less flying  creature  should  spring  upon  his  death. 
The  silence  around  me  was  perfectly  delightful.  I 
could  hear  nothing — not  even  the  warbling  of  a 
bird — not  the  murmuring  of  the  rill,  for  the  stream 
by  my  side,  instead  of  brawling  and  bubbUng  over 
its  channel,  had  spread  itself  out  into  unbroken 
transparency.  Across  its  bank,  and  accidentally 
answering  the  purposes  of  a  bridge,  a  fallen  tree 
was  lying.  Sometimes  a  playful  fish  leaped  up 
from  the  brook,  or  glistened  near  the  surface,  as  it 
turned  its  silver  side  to  the  sun  ;  and  sometimes  a 
leaf,  loosened  from  its  branch,  fell,  and  floated  slow- 
ly to  the  ground  in  silence.  I  was  thinking  how 
many  millions  of  my  fellow-creatures  drop  off  even 
thus  in  the  shadowy  places  of  life,  and  go  down  to 
the  church-yard  with  as  little  notice  or  interruption 
to  the  general  business  and  joy  and  beauty  of  na- 
ture,— when  the  barking  and  yelping  of  the  hounds 
came  faintly  through  the  distance,  then  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  the  whole  chorus  swelled  on  the  breeze, 
and  rung  through  the  quiet  wood,  breaking  strange- 
ly in  upon  its  impressive  stillness  with  discordant 
sounds  of  riot  and  death.  You  cannot  conceive, 
unless  you  have  experienced  a  similar  moment,  the 
almost  painful  eagerness  and  anxiety  with  which 
I  watched  to  behold  the  victim  appear  through  the 
trees.  I  heard  a  rustling  among  the  dried  leaves, 
and  with   desperate  speed,  and  the  whole  bloody 


THE   PREMIVX.  151 

pack  close  at  lier  heels,  a  large  doe  broke  from  the 
thicket,  and  passed  near  the  place  where  I  stood. 
Fleet  as  the  wind  she  was  springing  by,  when  I 
gave  a  low  whistle  ;  on  a  sudden  she  stopped,  and 
the  fatal  ball  lodged  in  her  shoulder ;  another  and 
another  stretched  her  on  the  ground.  She  was  a 
most  lovely  and  feminine  creature.  Notliing  could 
exceed  the  grace,  cleanliness,  and  beauty  of  her 
form  and  Umbs.  The  dark  silky  brown  of  her  back, 
the  snowy  whiteness  of  her  neck,  throat,  and  chest, 
and  the  almost  human  intelligence  of  her  face, 
struck  me  with  a  strange  feeling,  of  which  those 
more  familiar  with  the  sight  can  form  no  idea.  I 
confess,  however  unmanly  it  may  have  been,  that  a 
momentary  horror  ran  through  my  frame,  as  the 
long  lids,  with  their  long  lashes,  fell  over  those 
large,  dark,  and  beautiful  eyes,  while  the  swarthy 
huntsmen,  with  rough  grasp  and  merry  jokes,  bound 
together  her  slender,  tapering  limbs,  and  one  drew 
his  long  and  gUttering  knife  across  her  throat. 

FAT. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 


The  Spirit  of  Beauty  unfurls  her  light, 
And  wheels  her  course  in  a  joyous  flight; 
I  know  her  track  through  the  b<iRmy  air. 
By  the  blossoms  that  cluster  and  whiten  there ; 
She  leaves  the  tops  of  the  mountains  green, 
And  gems  the  valley  with  crystal  sheen. 

At  morn,  I  know  where  she  rested  at  night. 
For  the  roses  are  gushing  with  dewy  delight ; 
Then  she  mounts  again,  and  around  her  flings 
A  shower  of  light  from  her  purple  wings, 


152  THE  phemium. 

Till  the  spirit  is  drunk  with  the  music  on  high. 
That  silently  fills  it  with  ecstacy  ! 

At  noon,  she  hies  to  a  cool  retreat.. 

Where  bowering  elms  over  waters  meet ; 

She  dimples  the  wave  where  the  green  leaves  dip, 

And  smiles,  as  it  curls  like  a  maiden's  lip, 

When  her  tremulous  bosom  would  hide,  in  vain 

From  her  lover,  the  hope  that  she  loves  again. 

At  eve,  she  hangs  o'er  the  western  sky 

Dark  clouds  for  a  glorious  canopy ; 

And  round  the  skirts  of  each  sweeping  fold. 

She  paints  a  border  of  crimson  and  gold, 

Where  the  lingering  sunLeams  love  to  stay, 

When  their  god  in  his  glory  has  passed  away. 

She  hovers  around  us  at  twilight  hour, 

Where  her  presence  is  felt  with  the  deepest  power ; 

She  mellows  the  landscape,  and  crowds  the  stream 

With  shadows  that  flit  like  a  fairy  dream  : 

Still  wheeling  her  flight  through  the  gladsome  air, 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty  is  everywhere  ! 

DAWES. 


EXTRACT  FROM  MR.  BROUGHAMS  DEFENCE  OP 

J.   A.   WILLIAMS,   FOR  A  LIBEL  ON  THE 

CLERGY  OF  DURHAM. 

It  is  necessary  for  me  to  set  before  you  the  pic- 
ture, my  learned  friend  was  pleased  to  draw  of  the 
Clergy  of  the  Diocese  of  Durham,  and  I  shall  recall 
it  to  your  minds  almost  in  his  own  words.  Ac- 
cording to  him,  they  stand  in  a  peculiarly  unfortu- 
nate situation ;  they  are,  in  truth,  the  most  injured 
of  men. 

They  all,  it  seems,  entertained  the  same  gene- 
rous sentiments  with  the  rest  of  their  countrymen. 


THE    PllEJIIUM.  153 

though  they  did  not  express  them  in  the  old,  free 
English  manner,  by  openly  condemning  the  pro- 
ceedings against  the  late  Queen  ;  and,  after  the 
course  of  unexampled  injustice,  against  which  she 
victoriously  struggled,  had  been  followed  by  the 
needless  infliction  of  inhuman  torture,  to  undermine 
a  frame  whose  spirit  no  open  hostility  could  daunt 
and  extinguish  the  life  so  long  embittered  by  the 
same  foul  arts — after  that  great  Princess  had  ceased 
to  harass  her  enemies — after  her  glorious  but  un- 
happy life  had  closed,  and  that  princely  head  was 
at  last  laid  low  by  death,  which,  living,  all  oppres- 
sion had  only  the  more  illustriously  exalted — the 
venerable,  the  Clergy  of  Durham,  I  am  now  told 
for  the  first  time,  though  less  forward  in  giving  vent 
to  their  feelings  than  the  rostof  their  fellow-citizens 
— though  not  so  vehement  in  their  indignation  at 
the  matchless  and  unmanly  persecution  of  the 
Queen — though  not  so  unbridled  in  their  joy  at  her 
immortal  triumph,  nor  so  loud  in  their  lamentations 
over  her  mournful  and  untimely  end — did,  never- 
theless, in  reality,  all  the  vt'hile,  deeply  sympathize 
with  her  sufferings,  in  the  bottom  of  then  reverend 
hearts  ! 

When  all  the  resources  of  the  most  ingenious  cru- 
elty hurried  her  to  a  fate  without  parallel — if  not  so 
clamorous,  they  did  not  feel  the  least  of  all  the 
members  of  the  community — their  grief  was  in 
truth  too  deep  for  utterance — sorrow  clung  round 
their  bosoms,  weighed  upon  their  tongues,  stifled 
every  sound — and,  when  all  the  rest  of  mankind, 
of  all  sects  and  of  all  nations,  freely  gave  vent  to  the 
feelings  of  our  common  nature,  thkir  silence,  the 
contrast  which  they  displayed  to  the  rest  of  their 
species,  proceeded  from  the  greater  depth  of  their  af- 
fliction ;  they  said  the  less  because  they  felt  the  more ! 


154  THE    PHi;MItT3I. 

Oh  !  talk  of  hypocrisy  after  this  ! — Most  consum- 
mate of  all  hypocrites  !  After  instructing  your  cho- 
sen official  advocate  to  stand  forward  with  such  a 
defence — such  an  exposition  of  your  motives — to 
dare  utter  the  word  hypocrisy,  and  complain  of 
those  who  charged  you  with  it !  this  is  indeed  to  in- 
sult common  sense,  and  outrage  the  feelings  of  the 
whole  human  race  !  If  you  were  hypocrites  before, 
you  were  downright,  frank,  honest  hypocrites  to 
what  you  have  now  made  yourselves — and  surely 
for  all  you  have  ever  done  or  ever  been  charged 
with,  your  worst  enemies  must  be  satiated  with  the 
humiliation  of  this  day,  its  just  atonement,  and  am- 
ple retribution  ! 


RIGHT  OF  FREE  DISCUSSION  ASSERTED. 

Importaxt  as  I  deem  it  to  discuss,  on  all  proper 
occasions,  the  policy  of  the  measures  at  present  pur- 
sued, it  is  still  more  important  to  maintain  the  right 
of  such  discussion,  in  its  full  and  just  extent.  Senti- 
ments lately  sprung  up,  and  now  growing  fashion- 
able, make  it  necessary  to  be  explicit  on  this  point. 
The  more  I  perceive  a  disposition  to  check  the 
freedom  of  inquiry  by  extravagant  and  unconsti- 
tutional pretences,  the  firmer  shall  be  the  tone,  in 
which  I  shall  assert,  and  the  freer  the  maimer,  in 
which  I  shall  exercise  it. 

It  is  the  ancient  and  undoubted  prerogative  of 
this  people  to  canvass  public  measures,  and  the 
merits  of  public  men.  It  is  a  '  homebred  right,'  a 
fireside  privilege.  It  hath  ever  been  enjoyed  in 
every  house,  cottage,  and  cabin  in  the  nation.  It  is 
not  to  be  drawn  into  controversy.  It  is  as  un- 
doubted as  the  right  of  breathing  the  air,  or  walking 


THE  pnKAiiu.Ar.  155 

on  the  earth.  Belonging  to  private  life  as  a  right, 
it  belongs  to  public  life  as  a  duty  ;  and  it  is  the  last 
duty,  which  those,  whose  Representative  I  am,  shall 
find  me  to  abandon.  Aiming  at  all  times  to  be  cour- 
teovs  and  temperate  in  its  use,  except  when  the  right 
itself  shall  be  questioned,  I  shall  then  carry  it  to  its 
extent.  I  shall  place  myself  on  the  extreme  bounda- 
ry of  my  right,  and  bid  defiance  to  any  arm  that 
would  move  me  from  my  ground. 

This  high  constitutional  privilege,  I  shall  defend 
and  exercise  within  this  Houso,  and  without  this 
House,  and  in  all  places ;  in  time  of  war,  in  time 
of  peace,  and  at  all  times.  Living  I  shall  assert, 
dying  I  shall  assert  it ;  and  should  I  leave  no  other 
inheritance  to  my  children,  by  the  blessing  of  God, 
I  will  leave  them  the  inheritance  of  free  principles, 
and  the  example  of  a  manly,  independent,  and  con- 
stitutional defence  of  them.  D.  VVEBSTEB. 


THE  DECLAR\TroX  OF  INDEPEVDENCE  COM- 
PARED WITH  MAGNA  CHARTA. 

It  is  as  a  great,  solemn  political  act,  that  it  de- 
mands our  highest  veneration.  What  had  the 
world  ever  seen  that  was  equal,  that  approached  to 
it?  Go  to  antiquity — to  Greece,  to  Rome — travel 
over  France,  Spain,  Germany,  and  the  whole  of 
modem  continental  Europe.  All  was  comparative 
gloom  ;  political  science  had  not  risen.  Go  to  the 
isles  of  the  sea — to  Britain,  then  the  freest  of  na- 
tions ;  and  Englishmen  would  proudly  point  you 
to  their  Magna  Charta,  as  their  most  valuable  birth- 
right, and  the  greatest  bulwark  of  liberty,  which 
any  nation  had  raised.  It  was  so.  And  yet  how  does 
it  dwindle  in  the  contrast  with  our  Declaiation  of 


156  THE  PREMIUM. 

Independence,  which  was  a  greater  era  in  the  his- 
tory of  mankind,  than  Magna  Charta  w^as  in  the 
history  of  England.  The  latter  was  a  concession, 
extorted  by  armed  barons  from  their  sovereign.  It 
was,  what  is  called  a  charter,  from  the  king,  as  the 
fountain  of  all  right  and  power.  He  was  their 
lord  and  master — the  ultimate  owner  of  all  the  soil 
in  the  kingdom  ;  and  this  was  a  grant,  forced,  it  is 
true,  but  still  a  grant,  from  his  grace  and  favour, 
allowing  the  exercise  of  some  rights  to  his  subjects, 
and  consenting  to  some  limits  to  his  royal  preroga- 
tive. 

The  former  is  not  a  grant  of  privileges  to  a  por- 
tion of  a  single  nation — it  is  a  DECiAUATiox  bi/  a 
■zvhole  people,  of  what  before  existed,  and  will  al- 
ways exist,  the  native  eqitality  of  the  human  race, 
as  the  true  foundation  of  all  poUticaJ,  of  all  human 
institutions.  It  was  an  assetitio>',  that  we  held 
OLir  rights,  as  we  hold  our  existence,  by  no  charter, 
except  from  the  Kixg  of  Kings.  It  vindicated  the 
dignity  of  our  nature.  It  rested  upon  this  '  one  in- 
extinguishable truth,  which  never  has  been,  and 
never  can  be,  wholly  eradicated  from  the  human 
heart,  placed  as  it  is,  in  the  very  core  and  centre  of 
it  by  its  Maker,  that  man  was  not  made  the  property 
of  man — that  human  power  is  a  trust  for  human 
benefit,  and  that  when  it  is  abused,  resistance  be- 
comes justice  and  duty.'         sprague  of  .xai>'e. 


CHARACTER  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

SuBEiMiTT  of  conception,  grandeur  of  form,  and 
breadth  of  manner,  are  the  elements  of  Michael  An- 
gelo's  style.  By  these  principles  he  selected  or  re- 
jected the  objects  of  imitation.   As  painter,  as  sculp- 


THE  pnE3riu3r.  157 

tor,  as  architect,  he  attempted,  and  above  any  other 
man  succeeded,  in  uniting  magnificence  of  plan 
and  endless  variety  of  subordinate  parts  with  the 
utmost  simphcity  and  breadth. 

His  line  is  uniformly  grand.  Character  and 
beauty  were  admitted  only  as  far  as  they  could  be 
made  subservient  to  grandeur.  The  child,  the  fe- 
male, meanness,  deformity,  were  by  him  indiscrimi- 
nately stamped  with  grandeur.  A  beggar  rose  from 
his  hand  the  patriarch  of  poverty ;  the  hump  of  hig 
dwarf  is  impressed  with  dignity  ;  his  infants  teem 
with  the  man ;  his  men  are  a  race  of  giants. 

To  give  the  appearance  of  perfect  ease  to  the 
most  perplexing  difficulty,  was  the  exclusive  power 
of  Michael  Angelo.  He  is  the  inventor  of  epic 
painting,  in  that  sublime  circle  of  the  Sistine  Cha- 
pel, which  exhibits  the  origin,  the  progress,  and  the 
final  dispensations  of  theocracy.  He  has  personi- 
fied motion  in  the  groups  of  the  cartoon  of  Pisa ; 
embodied  sentim.ent  on  the  monuments  of  St.  Lo- 
renzo, unravelled  the  features  of  meditation  in  the 
prophets  and  sybils  of  the  chapel  of  Sixtus  ;  and,  in 
the  last  judgment,  with  every  attitude  that  varies 
the  human  body,  traced  the  master  trait  of  every 
passion  that  sways  the  human  heart. 

Though  as  sculptor,  he  expressed  the  character 
of  flesh  more  perfectly  than  all  who  went  before  or 
came  after  him,  yet  he  never  submitted  to  copy  an 
individual,  Julio  the  second,  only  excepted  ;  and  in 
him  he  represented  the  reigning  passion  rather  than 
the  man. 

In  painting,  he  contented  himself  with  a  nega- 
tive colour,  and,  as  the  painter  of  mankind,  rejected 
all  meretricious  ornament.  The  fabric  of  St.  Peter, 
scattered  into  infinity  of  janing  parts  by  Bramante 
and  his  successors,  he  concentrated ;  suspended  the 


loS  THE  PREMtr^r. 

cupola,  and  to  the  most  complex,  gave  the  air  of  the 
most  simple  of  edifices. 

Such  was  Michael  Angelo,  the  salt  of  art ;  some- 
times he,  no  doubt,  had  his  moments  of  dereliction, 
deviated  into  manner,  or  perplexed  the  grandeur  of 
his  forms  with  futile  and  ostentatious  anatomy. 
These  faults  met  with  armies  of  copyists,  whilst  his 
grandeur  had  go  rival.  fuseli. 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

Fro:m  that  lone  lake,  the  sweetest  of  the  chain 
That  links  the  mountain  to  the  mighty  main, 
Fresh  from  the  rock,  and  welhng  by  the  tree, 
Rushing  to  meet,  and  dare,  and  breast  the  sea — 
Fair,  noble,  glorious  river  !  in  thy  wave 
The  sunniest  slopes  and  sw^eetest  pastures  lave  ; 
The  mountain  torrent,  with  its  wintry  roar. 
Springs  from  its  home  and  leaps  upon  thy  shore  ; 
The  promontories  love  thee — and  for  this 
Turn  their  rough  cheeks,  and  stay  thee  for  thy  kiss. 
The  blasts  have  rocked  thy  cradle,  and  in  stf)rm 
Covered  thy  couch,  and  swathed  in  snow  thy  form. 
Yet,  blessed  by  all  the  elements  that  sweep 
The  clouds  above,  or  the  unfathomed  deep, 
The  purest  breezes  scent  thy  blooming  hills, 
The  gentlest  dews  drop  in  thy  eddying  rills ; 
By  the  mossed  bank,  and  by  the  aged  tree, 
The  silver  streamlet  smoothest  glides  to  thee. 
The  young  oak  greets  thee  at  the  water's  edge, 
M'et  by  the  wave,  though  anchored  in  the  ledge. 
— 'Tis  there  the  otter  dives,  the  beaver  feeds, 
\Miere  pensive  oziers  dip  their  willowy  weeds ; 
And  there  the  wild  cat  purrs  amid  her  brood, 
And  trains  them  in  the  sylvan  solitude, 


THE    PttEMlU.-\t.  159 

To  watch  the  squirrel's  leap,  or  mark  the  mink 
Paddling  the  water  by  thy  quiet  brink ; 
Or  to  out-gaze  the  gray  owl  in  the  dark, 
Or  hear  the  young  fox  practising  to  bark. 

Bark  as  the  frost*nipped  leaves  that  strewed  the 

ground, 
The  Indian  hunter  here  his  shelter  found  ; 
Here  cut  his  bow  and  shaped  his  arrows  true, 
Here  built  his  wigwam,  and  his  bark  canoe. 
Speared  the  quick  sahnon  leaping  up  the  fall, 
And  slew  the  deer  without  the  rifle  ball. 
Here  his  young  squaw  her  cradling  tree  would 

choose. 
Singing  her  chant,  to  hush  her  swart  pappoose ; 
Here  stain  her  quills,  and  string  her  trinkets  rude, 
And  weave  her  warrior's  wampum  in  the  wood. 

No  more  shall  they  thy  welcome  waters  bless, 
No  more  their  forms  thy   moonlit  banks  shall 

press, 
No  more  be  heard,  from  mountain  or  from  grove, 
His  whoop  of  slaughter,  or  her  song  of  love. 
************* 
Down  sweeps  the  torrent  ice — it  may  not  stay 
By  rock  or  bridge,  in  narrow  or  in  bay — 
Swift,  swifter  to  the  heaving  sea  it  goes. 
And  leaves  thee  dimpling  in  thy  sweet  repose. 
■ — Yet  as  the  unharmed  swallow  skims  his  way, 
And  lightly  drops  his  pinions  in  thy  spray, 
So  the  swift  sail  shall  seek  thy  inland  seas, 
And  swell  and  whiten  in  thy  purer  breeze, 
New  paddies  dip  thy  waters,  and  strange  oars 
Feather  thy  wave,  and  touch  thy  noble  shores. 

Thy  noble  shores  !  where  the  tall  steeple  shines, 
At  mid-day  higher  than  thy  mountain  pines. 


160  THE  PKEMir:^f. 

Where  the  white  schoolhouse  with  its  daily  drill 
Of  sunburnt  children  smiles  upon  the  hill  ; 
Where  the  neat  Aillage  grows  upon  the  eye, 
Decked  forth  in  nature's  sweet  simplicity — 
Where  hard-won  competence,  the  farmer's  wealth, 
Gains  merit  honour,  and  gives  labour  health  ; 
Where  Goldsmitli's  self  might  send  his  exiled 

band, 
To  find  a  new  "  Sweet  Auburn"  in  our  land. 

W*liat  Art  can  execute,  or  Taste  devise, 
Decks  thy  fair  course,  and  gladdens  in  thine  eyes, 
As  broader  sweep  the  bendings  of  thy  stream. 
To  meet  the  southern  sun's  more  constant  beam. 
Here  cities  rise,  and  sea-washed  commerce  hails 
Thy  shores,  and  winds  with  all  her  flapping  sails 
From  tropic  isles,  or  from  the  torrid  main, 
Where  grows  the  grape,  or  sprouts  the  sugarcane ; 
Or  from  the  haunts  where  the  striped  haddock  play, 
By  each  cold  northern  bank  and  frozen  bay. 
Here,  safe  returned  from  every  stormy  sea, 
Waves  the  striped  flag,  the  mantle  of  the  free  ; 
— That  star-lit  flag,  by  all  the  breezes  curl'd, 
Of  yon  vast  deep,  whose  waters  grasp  the  world. 

In  what  Arcadian,  what  Utopian  ground, 
Are  warmer  hearts  or  manlier  feelings  found ; 
More  hospitable  welcome,  or  more  zeal 
To  make  the  curious  "  tarrying"  stranger  feel 
That,  next  to  home,  here  best  may  he  abide, 
To  rest  and  cheer  him  by  the  chimney  side  ; 
Drink  the  hale  farmer's  cider,  as  he  hears 
From  the  gray  dame  the  tales  of  other  years. 
Cracking  his  shag-barks  as  the  aged  crone. 
Mixes  the  true  and  doubtful  into  one. 
Tells  how  the  Indian  scalped  the  helpless  child. 
And  bore  its  shrieking  mother  to  the  wild. 


THE  premiitm:.  161 

Butcher'd  the  father  hast'ning  to  his  home, 
Seeking  his  cottage — finding  but  his  tomb. 
How  drums  and  flags  and  troops  were  seen  on 

high, 
Wheeling  and  charging  in  the  northern  sky. 
And  that  she  knew  what  these  wild  tokens  meant, 
When  to  the  Old  French  War  her  husband  went. 
How,  by  the  thunder-blasted  tree  was  hid 
The  golden  spoils  of  far-famed  Robert  Kid ; 
And  then  the  chubby  grandchild  wants  to  know 
About  the  ghosts  and  witches  long  ago. 
That  haunted  the  old  swamp. 

The  clock  strikes  ten — 
The  prayer  is  offered,  nor  forgotten  then 
The  stranger  in  their  grates  : — a  decent  rule 
Of  Elders  in  thy  puritanic  school. 
When  the  fresh  morning  wakes  him  from  his 

dream. 
And   daylight  smiles   on  rock,  and  slope,  and 

stream, 
Are  there  not  glossy  curls,  and  sunny  eyes 
As  brightly  lit  and  bluer  than  thy  skies, 
Voices,  as  gentle  as  an  echoed  call. 
And  sweeter  than  the  soften'd  waterfall, 
And  lovely  forms,  as  graceful  and  as  gay 
As  wild-brier  budding  in  an  April  day — 
— How  like  the  leaves — the  fragrant  leaves  it 

bears. 
Their  sinless  purposes,  and  simple  cares. 

Stream  of  my  sleeping  fathers  !  when  the  sound 
Of  coming  war  echoed  thy  hills  around. 
How  did  thy  sons  start  forth  from  every  glade. 
Snatching  the  musket  where  they  left  the  spade  ! 
How  did  their  mothers  m-ge  them  to  the  fight, 
Their  sisters  tell  them  to  defend  the  right ; 
L 


162  TUE  PBE3I1ITM. 

How  bravely  did  they  stand,  how  nobly  fall, 
The  earth  their  coffin,  and  the  turf  their  pall ; 
How  did  the  aged  pastor  Ught  his  eye. 
When,  to  his  flock,  he  read  the  purpose  high, 
And  stern  resolve,  whate'er  the  toil  might  be, 
To  pledge  life,  name,  fame,  all — for  Liberty. 

Bold  river  !  better  suited  are  they  waves 
To  nurse  the  laurels  clustering  round  their  graves  ; 
Then  many  a  distant  stream,  that  soaks  the  mud 
Where   thy  brave  sons  have  shed  their  gallant 

blood. 
And  felt,  beyond  all  other  mortal  pain. 
They  ne'er  should  see  their  happy  home  again. 

BBAIKERI). 


LORD  THURLOW. 


At  times,  lord  Thurlow  was  superlatively  great. 
It  was  the  good  fortune  of  the  Reminiscent,  to  hear 
his  celebrated  reply  to  the  duke  of  Grafton,  during 
the  inquiry  into  lord  Sandwich's  administration  of 
Greenwich  hospital.  His  grace's  action  and  de- 
livery, when  he  addressed  the  house,  were  singu- 
larly dignified  and  graceful ;  but  his  matter  was  not 
equal  to  his  maimer.  He  reproached  lord  Thurlow 
with  his  plebeian  extraction,  and  his  recent  admis- 
sion into  the  peerage.  Particular  circumstances 
caused  lord  Thurlow's  reply  to  make  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  the  Reminiscent.  His  lordship  had  spoken 
too  often,  and  began  to  be  heard  vpith  a  civil  but  vi- 
sible impatience.  Under  these  circumstances,  he 
was  attacked  in  the  manner  we  have  mentioned. 
He  rose  from  the  woolsack,  and  advanced  slowly  lo 
the  place  from  which  the  chancellor  generally  ad- 
dresses the  house ;  then,  fixing  on  the  duke  the  lo(^ 


THE  VRZ^tlVTit,  163 

of  Jove,  when  he  has  grasped  the  thunder ;— '  I  am 
amazed,'  he  said,  in  a  level  tone  of  voice,  '  at  the  at- 
tack which  the  noble  duke  has  made  on  me.  Yes^ 
my  lords,'  considerably  raising  his  voice,  '  I  am 
amazed  at  his  grace's  speech.  I'he  noble  duke  can- 
not look  before  him,  behind  him,  or  on  either  side 
of  him,  without  seeing  some  noble  peer,  who  owe3 
his  seat  in  this  house  to  his  successful  exertions  in 
the  profession  to  which  I  belong.  Does  he  not  feel 
that  it  is  as  honourable  to  owe  it  to  these,  as  to  be- 
ing the  accident  of  an  accident  1 — To  all  these  no- 
ble lords,  the  language  of  the  noble  duke  is  as  appli- 
cable and  as  insulting  as  it  is  to  myself.  But  I  don't 
fear  to  meet  it  single  and  alone.  No  one  venerates 
the  peerage  more  than  I  do, — but,  my  lords,  I  must 
Bay  that  the  peerage  solicited  me, — not  I  the  peerage. 
Nay  more,  I  can  say  and  will  say,  that,  as  a  peer 
of  parliament, — as  speaker  of  this  right  honourable 
house,  as  keeper  of  the  great  seal, — as  guardian  of 
his  majesty's  conscience, — as  lord  high  chancellor 
of  England,  nay,  even  in  that  character  alone,  in 
which  the  noble  duke  would  think  it  an  affront  to 
be  considered, — 'but  which  character  none  can  deny 
me, — as  a  max,  I  am  at  this  moment  as  respectable ; 
■ — I  beg  leave  to  add, — I  am  at  this  time,  as  much 
respected  as  the  proudest  peer  I  now  look  down 
upon.'  The  effect  of  this  speech,  both  within  the 
walls  of  parliament  and  out  of  them,  was  prodigious. 
It  gave  lord  Thurlow  an  ascendancy  in  the  house, 
which  no  chancellor  had  ever  possessed  ;  it  invested 
him,  in  public  opinion,  with  a  character  of  indepen- 
dence and  honour ;  and  this,  although  he  w^as  ever 
on  the  unpopular  side  of  politics,  made  him  always 
popular  with  the  people. 

BUTLEU'S  REMiyiSCEXCES. 


164  THE  PHEMirJr. 


SICILIAN  SCEXE. 


OvE  night  a  masque  was  held  within  the  walla 

Of  a  Sicilian  palace  ;  the  gayest  flowers 

Cast  life  and  beauty  o'er  the  marble  halls, 

And,  in  remoter  spots,  fresh  water-falls 

That  'rose  half  hidden  by  sweet  lemon  bowers, 

A  low  and  silver-voiced  music  made : 

And  there  the  frail  perfuming  woodbine  strayed. 

Winding  its  slight  arms  'round  the  cypress  bough, 

And  as  in  female  trust  seem'd  there  to  grow, 

Like  woman's  love  midst  sorrow  flourishing : 

And  every  odorous  plant  and  brighter  thing 

Bom  of  the  sunny  skies  and  weeping  rain, 

That  from  the  bosom  of  the  spring 

8tarts  into  Ufa  and  beauty  once  again, 

Blossom'd ;  and  there  in  walks  of  evergreen 

Gay  cavahers  and  dames  high-born  and  fair, 

Wearing  that  rich  and  melancholy  smile 

That  can  so  well  beguile 

The  human  heart  from  its  recess,  were  seen. 

And  lovers  full  of  love  or  studious  Qare, 

Wasting  their  rhymes  upon  the  soft  night  air, 

And  spirits  that  never  till  the  morning  sleep. 

And,  far  away,  the  mountain  ^tna  flung 

Eternally  its  pyramid  of  flame 

High   as  the  heavens,  while  from  its  heart  there 

came 
Hollow  and  subterranean  noises  deep. 
And  all  around  the  constellations  hung 
Their  starry  lamps,  lighting  the  midnight  sky. 
As  to  do  honour  to  that  revelry. 

COKJfWALt. 


THE  PHE3IIUM.  165 


MORNIXG  TWILIGHT. 


The  mountains  are  blue  with  the  morning  air, 
And  the  woods  are  sparkhng  with  dewy  light ; 
The  winds,  as  they  wind  through  the  hollows,  hear 
The  breath  of  the  blossoms  that  wake  by  night ; 
Wide  o'er  the  bending  meadows  roll 
The  mists,  like  a  lightly  moving  sea ; 
The  sun  is  not  risen — and  over  the  whole 
There  hovers  a  silent  mystery. 

The  pure  blue  sky  is  in  calm  repose  ; 

The  pillowy  clouds  are  sleeping  there  ; 

So  stilly  the  brook  in  its  covert  flows. 

You  would  think  its  murmur  a  breath  of  air. 

The  water  that  floats  in  the  glassy  pool. 

Half  hid  by  the  willows  that  line  its  brink, 

In  its  deep  recess  has  a  look  so  cool, 

One  would  worship  its  nymph,  as  he  bent  to  drink. 

Pure  and  beautiful  thoughts,  at  this  early  hour, 
Go  off  to  the  home  of  the  bright  and  blessed  ; 
They  steal  on  the  heart  with  an  unseen  power, 
And  its  passionate  throbbings  are  laid  at  rest : 
O  !  who  would  not  catch,  from  the  quiet  sky 
And  the  mountains  that  soar  in  the  hazy  air. 
When  his  harbinger  tells  that  the  sun  is  nigh, 
The  visions  of  bliss  that  are  floating  there. 

PERCITAL. 


MAY  YOU  DIE  AMOxVG  YOUR  KIIVDRED. 

It  is  a  sad  thing  to  feel  that  we  must  die  away 
from  our  home.  Tell  not  the  invalid  who  is  yearn- 
ing after  his  distant  country,  that  the  atmosphere 
around  him  is  soft ;  that  the  gales  are  filled  with 


166  THE  PnEMItTM. 

balm,  and  the  flowers  are  springing  from  the  green 
earth ; — he  knows  that  the  softest  air  to  his  heart 
would  be  the  air  which  hangs  over  his  native  land  ; 
that  more  grateful  than  all  the  gales  of  the  south, 
would  breathe  the  low  whispers  of  anxious  aflection ; 
that  the  very  icicles  clinging  to  liis  own  eaves,  and 
the  snow  beating  against  his  own  windows,  would 
be  far  more  pleasant  to  nis  eyes,  than  the  bloom 
and  verdure  which  only  more  forcibly  remind  him 
how  far  he  is  from  that  one  spot  which  is  dearer  to 
him  than  the  world  beside.  He  may,  indeed,  find 
estimable  friends  who  will  do  all  in  their  power  to 
promote  his  comfort  and  assuage  his  pains ;  but 
tbey  cannot  supply  the  place  of  the'  long  known 
and  long  loved  ;  they  cannot  read  as  in  a  book  the 
mute  language  of  his  face  ;  they  have  not  learned 
to  wait  upon  his  habits,  and  anticipate  his  wants, 
and  he  has  not  learned  to  communicate,  without 
hesitation,  all  his  wishes,  impressions,  and  thoughts 
to  them.  He  feels  that  he  is  a  stranger ;  and  a 
more  desolate  feeling  than  that  could  not  visit  his 
soul. — How  much  is  expressed  by  that  form  of 
oriental  benediction,  ./lioj/  you  die  among  your  kin- 
dred. GREENWOOD. 


THE  STAKS. 
Ye  stars,  bright  legions,  that,  before  all  time, 
Camped  on  yon  plain  of  sapphire,  what  shall 
tell 
Your  burning  myriads,  but  the  eye  of  Him 
Who  bade  through  heaven  your  golden  chariots 

wheel  1 
Yet  who,  earthboin,  can  see  your  hosts,  nor  feel 
Immortal  impulses.     Eternity  ! 

What  wonder  if  the  o'erwrought  soul  shall  reel 


THE  pnE>riu>r.  167 

With  its  own  weight  of  thought,  and  the  wild  eye 
See  fate  within  your  tracks  of  sleepless  glory  lie  ] 

For  ye  behold  the  mightiest.     From  that  steep 

What  ages  have   ye  worshipped  round  your 
King! 
Ye  heard  his  trumpet  sounded  o'er  the  sleep 

Of  earth ;  ye  heard  the  morning  angels  sing. 

Upon  that  orb,  now  o'er  me  quivering, 
The  gaze  of  Adam  fixed  from  paradise ; 

The  wanderers  of  the  deluge  saw  it  spring 

Above  the  mountain  surge,  and  hailed  its  rise, 

Lighting  their  lonely  track  with  hope's  celestial  dyes. 


CRATER  OF  KIRAUEA  IN  HAWAII. 

We  travelled  on,  clearing  every  ohelo  bush  that 
grew  near  our  path,  till  about  two,  p.  m.  when  the 
crater  of  Kirauea  suddenly  burst  upon  our  view. 
We  expected  to  have  seen  a  mountain,  with  a  broad 
base,  and  rough,  indented  sides,  composed  of  loose 
slags  or  hardened  streams  of  lava,  and  whose  sum- 
mit would  have  presented  a  rugged  wall  of  scoria, 
forming  the  rim  of  a  mighty  caldron.  But,  instead 
of  this,  we  found  ourselves  on  the  edge  of  a  steep 
precipice,  with  a  vast  plain  before  us,  fifteen  or  six- 
teen miles  in  circumference,  and  sunk  from  two 
hundred  to  four  hundred  feet  below  its  original 
level.  The  surface  of  this  plain  was  uneven,  and 
strowed  over  with  large  stones  and  volcanic  rocks, 
and  in  the  centre  of  it  was  the  great  crater,  at  the 
distance  of  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  precipice  on 
which  we  were  standing.  Our  guides  led  us  round 
towards  the  north  end  of  the  ridge,  in  order  to  find 


168  THE  PREMIUJr. 

a  place  by  which  we  might  descend  to  the  plain 
below.  As  we  passed  along,  we  observed  the  na- 
tives, who  had  hitherto  refused  to  touch  any  of  the 
ohelo  benies,  now  gather  several  bunches,  and,  after 
offering  a  part  to  one  of  their  gods,  Pele,  eat  them 
very  freely.  They  did  not  use  much  ceremony  in 
their  acknowledgment ;  but  when  they  had  plucked 
a  branch  containing  several  clusters  of  berries,  they 
turned  their  faces  towards  the  place  whence  the  great- 
est quantity  of  smoke  and  vapour  issued,  and,  break- 
ing the  branch  they  held  in  their  hand  in  two,  they 
threw  one  part  down  the  precipice. 

We  walked  on  to  the  north  end  of  the  ridge, 
where,  the  precipice  being  less  steep,  a  descent  to 
the  plain  below  seemed  practicable.  It  required, 
however,  the  greatest  caution,  as  the  stones  and 
fragments  of  rock  frequently  gave  way  under  our 
feet,  and  rolled  down  from  above ;  but,  with  all  our 
care,  we  did  not  reach  the  bottom  without  several 
falls  and  slight  bruises. 

The  steep  which  we  had  descended  was  formed 
of  volcanic  matter,  apparently  a  light  red  and  gray 
kind  of  lava,  vesicular,  and  lying  in  horizontal  strata, 
varying  in  thickness  from  one  to  forty  feet.  In  a 
small  number  of  places,  the  different  strata  of  lava 
were  also  rent  in  perpendicular  or  obUque  directions, 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  either  by  earthquakes  or 
other  violent  convulsions  of  the  ground,  connected 
with  the  action  of  the  adjacent  volcano.  After 
walking  some  distance  over  the  sunken  plain  which 
in  several  places  sounded  hollow  under  our  feet,  we 
at  length  came  to  the  edge  of  the  great  crater,  where 
a  spectacle  subhme  and  even  appalUng,  presented 
itself  before  us — 

"  We  stopped,  and  trembled." 


THE  pue:>iium.  169 

Astonishment  and  awe  for  some  moments  ren- 
dered us  mute,  and,  like  statues,  we  stood  fixed  to 
the  spot,  with  our  eyes  riveted  on  the  abyss  below. 
Immediately  before  us  yawned  an  immense  gulf,  in 
the  form  of  a  crescent,  about  two  miles  in  length, 
from  north-east  to  south-west,  nearly  a  mile  in 
width,  and  apparently  eight  hundred  feet  deep. 
The  bottom  was  covered  with  lava,  and  the  south- 
west and  northern  parts  of  it  were  one  vast  flood  of 
burning  matter,  in  a  state  of  terrific  ebulition,  rolling 
to  and  fro  its  "  fiery  surge"  and  flaming  billows. 
Fifty-one  conical  islands,  of  varied  form  and  size, 
containing  as  many  craters,  rose  either  round  the 
edge  or  from  the  surface  of  the  burning  lake. 
Twenty-two  constantly  emitted  columns  of  gray 
smoke,  or  pyramids  of  brilliant  flame ;  and  several 
of  these  at  the  same  time  vomited  from  their  ignited 
mouths  streams  of  lava,  which  rolled  in  blazing  tor- 
rents down  their  black,  indented  sides  into  the  boil- 
ing mass  below. 

The  existence  of  these  conical  craters  led  us  to 
conclude,  that  the  boiling  caldron  of  lava  before  us 
did  not  form  the  focus  of  the  volcano ;  that  this  mass 
of  melted  lava  was  comparatively  shallow ;  and  that 
the  basin  in  which  it  was  contained  was  separated, 
by  a  stratum  of  solid  matter,  from  the  great  volcanic 
abyss,  which  constantly  poured  out  its  melted  con- 
tents through  these  numerous  craters  into  this  re- 
servoir. We  were  farther  inclined  to  this  opinion, 
from  the  vast  columns  of  vapour  continually  ascend- 
ing from  the  chasms  in  the  vicinity  of  tire  sulphur 
banks  and  pools  of  water,  for  they  must  have  been 
produced  by  other  fire  than  that  which  caused  the 
ebulition  in  the  lava  at  the  bottom  of  the  great  cra- 
ter ;  and  also  by  noticing  a  great  number  of  small 
craters,  in  vigorous  action,  situated  high  up  the  sides 


170  THE  PREMfUlM. 

of  the  great  gulf,  and  apparently  quite  detached  trom 
it.  The  streams  of  lava  which  they  emitted  rolled 
down  into  the  lake,  and  mingled  with  the  melted 
mass,  which,  though  thrown  up  by  different  aper- 
tures, had,  perhaps,  been  originally  fused  in  one 
vast  furnace. 

The  sides  of  the  gulf  before  us,  although  compos- 
ed of  different  strata  of  ancient  lava,  were  perpen- 
dicular for  about  four  hundred  feet,  and  rose  from  a 
wide  horizontal  ledge  of  sohd  black  lava  of  irregular 
breadth,  but  extended  completely  round.  Beneath 
this  ledge  the  sides  sloped  gradually  towards  the 
burning  lake,  which  was,  as  nearly  as  we  could 
judge,  three  or  four  hundred  feet  lower.  It  was 
evident  that  the  large  crater  had  been  "recently  filled 
with  liquid  lava  up  to  this  black  ledge,  and  had,  by 
some  subterranean  canal,  emptied  itself  into  the  sea, 
or  upon  the  low  land  on  the  shore  ;  and  in  all 
probability  this  evacuation  had  caused  the  inundation 
of  the  Kapapala  coast,  which  took  place,  as  we  after- 
wards learned,  about  three  weeks  prior  to  our  visit. 
The  gray,  and  in  some  places  apparently  calcined, 
sides  of  the  great  crater  before  us ;  the  fissures 
which  intersected  the  surface  of  the  plain  on  which 
we  were  standing ;  the  long  banks  of  sulphur  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  abyss  ;  the  vigorous  action  of 
the  numerous  small  craters  on  its  borders ;  the  dense 
columns  of  vapour  and  smoke  that  rose  at  the  north 
and  south  end  of  the  plain  ;  together  with  the  ridge 
of  steep  rocks  by  which  it  was  surrounded,  rising 
probably,  in  some  places,  three  or  four  hundred  feet 
,in  perpendicular  height, — presented  an  immense 
volcanic  panorama,  the  effect  of  which  was  greatly 
augmented  by  the  constant  roaring  of  the  vast  fiar- 
riaces  below. 

After  the  first  feelings  of  astonishment  had  subsid- 


THE  PREMIUM.  171 

ed,  we  remained  a  considerable  time  contemplating 
a  scene,  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe,  and  which 
filled  us  with  wonder  and  admiration  at  the  almost 
overwhelming  manifestation  it  affords  of  the  power 
of  that  dread  Being  who  created  the  world,  and 
who  has  declared  that  by  fire  he  will  one  day  destroy 
it.  We  then  walked  ■  along  the  west  side  of  the 
crater,  and  in  half  an  hour  reached  the  north  end. 

ELLIS. 


THE  GREEN  LINNET. 

Upo3f  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees, 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstacies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover ; 
There !  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

While  thus  before  my  eyes  he  gleams, 
A  brother  of  the  leaves  he  seems. 
When  in  a  moment  forth  he  teems 

His  little  song  in  gushes: 
As1f4t  pleased  him  to  disdain 
The  voiceless  form  he  chose  to  feign. 
While  he  was  dancing  with  the  train, 

Of  leaves  among  the  bushes. 

WORDSWORTH. 


THE  HUMAN  VOICE. 

We  are  all  sensible  of  the  varieties  of  the  hu- 
man voice ;  we  distinguish  our  acquaintances  by  its 


172  THE  PBEMimr. 

tones,  as  unerringly  as  by  the  features  of  the 
face ;  and  in  speaking  of  each  other  we  refer  to 
its  quaUties  as  constituting  a  most  essential  point 
in  our  descriptions.  Yet  how  few  of  us  have  any 
distinct  consciousness  of  the  immense  influence 
which  the  tones  of  the  voice  exercise ;  not  only  in 
quaUfying  the  import  of  our  words,  but  in  com- 
municating, almost  independent  of  them,  the  most 
deUcate  sensations,  as  well  as  the  most  violent  emo- 
tions, and  in  disclosing  the  deepest  and  most  hidden 
traits  of  the  "  concealed  heart." 

Every  one  feels  how  many  phisiognomical  pecu- 
liarities are  indissolubly  connected  with  certain 
moral  and  intellectual  qualities ;  but  this  connex- 
ion is  far  less  extensive  and  fixed,  than  that  be- 
tween peculiar  tones  and  these  qualities. 

From  the  first  to  the  last  breath  of  our  existence, 
the  voice  takes  its  character  from  the  mind  and  the 
heart.  Education,  as  it  modifies  our  other  attri- 
butes, may  modify  this,  and  even  bestow  command 
over  some  of  its  powers  ;  still  its  tones  will  remain 
the  true  index  of  the  soul.  The  various  changes, 
from  the  angelic  innocence  of  the  httle  child, 
through  the  joys  of  childhood,  the  hopes  of  youth, 
and  the  designs  of  maturity,  down  to  the  indiffer- 
ence of  old  age,  continually  produce  their  corres- 
ponding changes  in  the  tones  of  the  voice. 

What  description  of  the  purity,  the  innocence, 
the  helplessness  of  an  infant,  could  move  our  hearts 
towards  the  little  being  like  its  sweet  and  wordless 
tones ;  what  call  of  distress  so  irresistibly  draws  as- 
sistance, as  the  cries  of  its  wants  and  pains.  Na- 
ture has  given  to  these  tones  a  pecuUar  power  com- 
mensurate with  its  entire  dependence  upon  us,  and 
we  are  its  servators. 

Then  is  there  on  earth  any  thing  like  the  playful 


THE  PHEMItrif.  173 

and  joyous  tones  through  which  after-childhood 
pours  out  its  unchained  spirit  ?  Nothing — no  wit, 
no  humour,  no  exhilaration  of  the  mature  man  has 
power  over  our  sympathies  like  the  bursts  from  the 
spotless  hearts  of  laughing  children. 

In  youth,  that  state  between  the  artless  child  and 
artful  adult,  when  the  bosom  is  in  perpetual  com- 
motion, its  hopes  and  its  passions  assuming  new 
positions  and  new  combinations,  kaleidoscope  hke, 
at  every  new  incident  that  agitates  the  mind — how 
impotent  are  mere  words — how  meagre  would  be 
the  pictures  of  the  heart,  without  the  tones  of  the 
voice  peculiar  to  that  age. 

In  manhood,  when  the  mind  directs  every  act 
and  every  speech  according  to  design,  good  or  bad, 
and  attempts  to  bend  every  incident  to  its  purposes, 
we  acquire  the  art  of  appearing  what  we  wish  to  be 
thought  instead  of  what  we  really  are,  for 

"  All  the  world's  a  stasre, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players." 

Every  thing  that  is  of  us  yields  to  the  cunning 
devices  of  the  mind  except  the  voice.  The  tones 
which  belong  to  particular  emotions  cannot  be  alto- 
gether suppressed,  nor  can  the  most  consummate  hy- 
pocrisy perfectly  imitate  those  tones  where  the  emo- 
tions do  not  exist.  Hence  it  is  that  the  pure,  the 
simple,  the  upright,  the  sincere,  need  no  vouchers  ; 
they  have  only  to  speak,  and  the  tones  of  their 
voice  beget  at  once  implicit  faith.  Deception  may 
practise  her  wiles  in  every  other  way;  she  may 
force  the  eye  to  weep,  the  lips  to  smile,  the  tongue 
to  utter  false  words,  but  she  essays  in  vain  to  sub- 
due entirely  the  tones  of  the  voice.  At  every  mo- 
ment they  rebel  in  favour  of  truth. 

From  old  age  we  need  no  declarations  of  decayed 


174  THE  PREMIUM. 

sensiljilities,  of  indifference  to  the  excitements  of  tha 
younger  world,  of  loved  repose  ; — this  stage  of  mor- 
tality has  its  own  tones,  which  convey  the  sad  truth 
of  decay,  in  despite  of  all  the  treasured  phraises  of 
former  and  more  vigorous  habits. 

Between  friends,  lovers,  parents,  and  children  in 
all  the  dearer  relationships  of  life,  mere  words  are 
"  as  the  idle  wind,"  that  passes  unheeded  by  ;  it  is 
to  the  tones  of  the  voice  that  they  Usten — those 
ever  true  messengers  between  mind  and  mind  and 
heart  and  heart.  Even  in  our  slighter  intercourse 
with  the  world,  the  attractions  and  aversions  which 
we  feel  towards  particular  persons  depend,  more 
than  upon  any  tiling  else,  perhaps,  on  the  impres- 
sions received  from  the  tones  of  the  voice. 

That  eloquence  which  rivets  every  eye  of  an  im- 
mense assembly  on  the  speaker,  and  makes  every 
bosom  swell  with  his  own ; — that  acting  which 
hushes  an  audience  into  death-like  silence,  and 
bathes  every  eye  in  tears,  does  not  depend  upon  the 
mere  words,  the  attitudes  and  gesticulations, — but 
upon  the  voice.  These  are  the  mere  outlines  ;  the 
orator's  and  the  actor's  impassioned  tones  perfect  the 
figures,  put  on  the  colouring  and  shadow,  and  give 
the  picture  its  Ufe  and  beauty. 

At  every  stage  of  life, — under  the  influence  of 
every  passion, — amidst  all  the  various  scenes  of  bu- 
siness, of  love,  of  hate,  of  enjoyment,  and  of  misery, 
the  tones  of  the  voice,  and  they  only,  denote  us 

truly.  DB.  J.  H.  BLACK. 


BLINDNESS  OF  MILTON. 
There  lived  a  divine  old  man,  whose  everlasting 
remains  we  have  all  admired,  whose  memory  is  the 


THE  PREMIUM.  175 

pride  of  England  and  of  nature.  His  youth  was 
distinguished  by  a  happier  lot  than  perhaps  genius 
has  often  enjoyed  at  the  commencement  of  its  ca- 
reer ;  he  was  enabled,  by  the  liberality  of  Providence, 
tcdedicate  his  soul  to  the  cultivation  of  those  clas- 
sical accomplishments,  in  which  almost  his  infancy 
delighted  ;  he  had  attracted  admiration  at  the  pe- 
riod when  it  is  most  exquisitely  felt ;  he  stood  forth 
the  literary  and  political  champion  of  republican 
England  ;  and  Europe  acknowledged  him  the  con- 
queror. But  the  storm  arose ;  his  fortune  sank 
with  the  republic  which  he  had  defended  ;  the  name 
which  future  ages  have  consecrated  was  forgotten ; 
and  neglect  was  embittered  by  remembered  celebrity. 
Age  was  advancing.  Health  was  retreating.  Na- 
ture hid  her  face  from  him  forever ;  for  never  more 
to  him  returned 

"  Day,  or  tlio  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine." 

What  was  the  refuge  of  the  deserted  veteran  from 
penury — from  neglect — from  infamy — from  dark- 
ness 1  Not  in  a  querulous  and  peevish  despondency ; 
not  in  an  unmanly  recantation  of  principles,  erroneous 
but  unchanged  ;  not  in  the  tremendous  renunciation 
of  what  Heaven  has  given,  and  Heaven  alone 
should  take  away ;  but  he  turned  from  a  distracted 
country  and  a  voluptuous  court ;  he  turned  from 
triumphant  enemies  and  inefficient  friends;  he 
turned  from  a  world,  that  to  him  was  a  universal 
blank,  to  the  muse  that  sits  among  the  cherubim, 
and  she  caught  him  into  heaven  ! — The  clouds  that 
obscured  his  visions  upon  earth,  instanteously  va- 
nished before  the  blaze  of  celestial  etlulgence,  and  his 
eyes  opened  at  once  upon  all  the  glories  and  ter- 
rors of  the  Almighty,  the  seats  of  eternal  beatitude 


176  THE  PHEMIITM. 

and  bottomless  perdition.  What  though  to  look 
upon  the  face  of  this  earth  was  still  denied  ]  what 
was  it  to  him,  that  one  of  the  outcast  atoms  of  crea- 
tion was  concealed  from  his  view,  when  the  Deity 
permitted  the  muse  to  unlock  his  mysteries,  and 
disclose  to  the  poet  the  recesses  of  the  universe — ■ 
when  she  bade  its  soul  expand  into  its  immensity, 
and  enjoy  as  well  its  horrors  as  its  magnificence  1 
what  was  it  to  him  that  he  had  "  fallen  upon  evil 
days  and  evil  tongues'!"  for  the  muse  could  trans- 
plant his  spirit  into  the  bowers  of  Eden,  where  the 
frown  of  fortune  was  disregarded,  and  the  weight 
of  incumbent  infirmity  forgotten,  in  the  smile  that 
beamed  on  primeval  innocence,  and  the  tear  that 
was  consecrated  to  man's  first  disobedience. 


THE  UNKNOWN  ISLES. 


Oh  !  many  are  the  beauteous  isles 

Unknown  to  human  eye. 

That,  sleeping  'mid  the  ocean  smiles, 

In  happy  silence  lie. 

The  ship  may  pass  them  in  the  night, 

Nor  the  sailors  know  what  a  lovely  sight 

Is  resting  on  the  main  ; 

Some  wandering  ship  who  hath  lost  her  way, 

And  never,  or  by  night  or  day, 

Shall  pass  these  isles  again. 

There,  groves  that  bloom  in  endless  spring 

Are  rustling  to  the  radiant  wing 

Of  birds  in  various  jjlumage  bright, 

As  rainbow  hues,  or  dawning  light. 

Soft  falling  showers  of  blossoms  fair, 

Float  ever  on  the  fragrant  air, 


THE  PREMIUM  177 

Like  showers  of  vernal  snow  , 

And  from  the  fruit-tree  spreading  tall, 

The  richly  ripened  clusters  fall 

Oft  as  sea-breezes  blow. 

The  sun  and  clouds  alone  possess 

The  joy  of  all  that  loveUness  ; 

And  sweetly  to  each  other  smile 

The  live-long  day — sun,  cloud,  and  isle. 

How  silent  lies  each  shattered  bay  ! 

No  other  visitors  have  they 

To  their  shores  of  silvery  sand, 

Than  the  waves  that,  murmuring  in  their  glee, 

All  hurrying  in  a  joyful  band, 

Come  dancinff  from  the  sea.  wiison. 


A  MOTHER. 

Who  should  it  be  1 — Where  shouldst  thou  look  for 

kindness, 
When  we  are  sick,  where  can  we  turn  for  succour  1 
When  we  are  wretched,  where  can  we  complain  ] 
And  when  the  world  looks  cold  and  surly  on  us, 
W'here  can  we  go  to  meet  a  warmer  eye. 
With  such  sure  confidence  as  to  a  mother  1 

JOANXA  BAILLIE. 


MODESTY. 

A  vioiET  by  a  mossy  stone. 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! — 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

wounswoRTH, 
M 


178  THE  tnfiMlTJltf. 


AUTHORSHIP. 
It  was  a  favourite  remark  of  the  late  Mr.  Whit- 
bread,  that  no  man  does  anything  from  a  single 
motive.  The  separate  motives,  or,  rather,  moods  of 
mind,  which  produced  the  preceding  reflections  and 
anecdotes  have  been  laid  open  to  the  reader  in  each 
separate  instance.  But,  an  interest  in  the  welfare 
of  those  who,  at  the  present  time,  may  be  in  cir- 
cumstances not  dissimilar  to  my  own  at  my  first  en- 
trance into  life,  has  been  the  constant  accompani- 
ment, and,  (as  it  were,)  the  under-song  of  all  my 
feelings.  Whitehead,  exerting  the  prerogative  of 
his  laureateship,  addressed  to  youthful  poets  a  po- 
etic CHARGE,  which  is  perhaps  the  best,  and  certainly 
the  most  interesting  of  his  works*  With  no  other" 
privilege  than  that  of  sympathy  and  sincere  good 
wishes,  I  would  address  an  affectionate  exhortaion 
to  the  youthful  literati,  grounded  on  my  own  expe- 
rience. It  will  be  but  short ;  for  the  beginning,  mid- 
dle, and  end,  converge  to  one  charge  :  >'^EVEn  pur- 
sue LITERATURE  AS  A  TRADE.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  one  extraordinary  man,  I  have  never  known 
an  individual,  least  of  all  an  individual  of  genius, 
healthy  or  happy  without  a  profession,  i.  e.  some 
regndar  employment  which  does  not  depend  on  the 
will  of  the  moment,  and  which  can  be  carried  on  so 
far  mechanically,  that  an  average  quantum  only  of 
health,  spirits,  and  intellectual  exertion,  are  requi- 
site to  its  faithful  discharge.  Three  hours  of  lei- 
sure, unannoyedby  any  alien  anxiety,  and  looked 
forward  to  with  delight  as  a  change  and  recreation, 
will  suffice  to  realize  in  literature  a  larger  product 
of  what  is  truly  genial,  than  weeks  of  compulsion. 
Money  and  immediate  reputation,  form  only  an  ar- 
bitrary and  accidental  end  of  hterary  labour.     The 


trtE  PllEMtU3t.  179 

hnpe  of  increasing  them  by  any  given  exertion,  will 
often  prove  a  stimulant  to  industry ;  but  the  neces* 
sity  of  acquiring  them,  will,  in  all  works  of  genius, 
convert  the  stimulant  into  a  narcotic.  Motives  by  ex- 
cess reverse  their  very  nature,  and  instead  of  excit" 
ing,  stun  and  stupify  the  mind.  For  it  is  one  con- 
tradistinction of  genius  from  talent,  that  its  predo- 
ininant  end  is  always  comprised  in  the  means  ;  and 
this  is  one  of  the  many  points  which  establish  an 
analogy  between  genius  and  virtue.  Now,  though 
talents  may  exist  without  genius,  yet  as  genius  can- 
not exist,  certainly  not  manifest  itself,  without  ta- 
lents, I  would  advise  every  scholar  who  feels  the  geni- 
al power  working  within  him,  so  far  to  make  a  divi- 
sion between  the  two,  as  that  he  should  devote  his 
talents  to  the  acquirement  of  competence  in  some 
known  trade  or  profession,  and  his  genius  to  objects 
of  his  tranquil  and  unbiased  choice ;  while  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  actuated  in  both  aUke  by  the  sin- 
cere desire  to  perform  his  duty,  will  alike  ennoble 
both.  My  dear  young  friend,  (I  would  say,)  "  sup- 
pose yourself  established  in  any  honourable  occupa- 
tion. From  the  manufactory,  or  counting-house, 
from  the  law  court,  or  from  having  visited  your  last 
patient,  you  return  at  evening, 

"  Dear  tranquil  lime  when  the  sweet  sense  of  home 
Is  sweetest ^" 

to  your  family,  prepared  for  its  social  enjoyments, 
with  the  very  Countenances  of  your  wife  and  chil- 
dren brightened,  and  their  voice  of  welcome,  made 
doubly  welcome  by  the  knowledge  that,  as  far  as 
theij  are  concerned,  you  have  satisfied  the  demands 
of  the  day  by  the  labour  of  the  day.  Then,  when 
you  retire  into  your  study,  in  the  books  on  your 
shelves,  you  revisit  so  many  venerable  friends  with 


180  TH£  FREHIUM. 

whom  you  can  converse.  Your  own  spirit,  scarcely 
less  free  from  personal  anxieties  than  the  great 
minds  that,  in  those  books,  are  still  living  for  you ! 
Even  your  writing  desk  with  its  blank  paper,  and 
all  its  other  implements,  will  appear  as  a  chain  of 
flowers,  capable  of  linking  your  feelings,  as  well  as 
thoughts,  to  events  and  characters  past  or  to  come  ; 
not  a  chain  of  iron,  which  binds  you  down  to 
think  of  the  future  and  the  remote,  by  recalling  the 
claims  and  feelings  of  the  peremptory  present.  But 
why  should  I  say  retire  ?  The  habits  of  active  life 
and  daily  intercourse  with  the  stir  of  the  world,  will 
tend  to  give  you  such  self-command,  that  the  pre- 
sence of  your  family  will  be  no  interruption.  Nay, 
the  social  silence  or  undisturbing  voices  of  a  wife  or 
sister,  will  be  like  a  restorative  atmosphere,  or  soft 
music,  which  moulds  a  dream  without  becoming  its 
object.  If  facts  are  required  to  prove  the  possibility 
of  combining  v«?eighty  performances  in  literature  with 
full  and  independent  employment,  the  works  of  Ci- 
cero and  Xenophon  among  the  ancients,  of  sir  Tho- 
mas Moore,  Bacon,  Baxter,  or,  to  refer,  at  once,  to 
later  and  contemporary  instances,  Darwix  and  Ros- 
COE,  are  at  once  decisive  of  the  question. 

Whatever  be  the  profession  or  trade  chosen,  the 
advantages  are  many  and  important,  compared  with 
the  state  of  a  mere  literary  man,  who,  in  any  degree 
depends  on  the  sale  of  his  works  for  the  necessaries 
and  comforts  of  life.  In  the  former  a  man  lives  in 
sympathy  with  the  world  in  which  he  lives.  At 
least  he  acquires  a  better  and  quicker  tact  for  ths 
knowledge  of  that  with  which  men  in  general  can 
sympathise.  He  learns  to  manage  his  genius  more 
prudently  and  efficaciously.  His  powers  and  acquire- 
ments gain  him  likewise  more  real  admiration,  for 
they  surpass  the  legitimate  expectations  of  others.— 


THE  PnEMI'JM.  181 

He  is  something  besides  an  author,  and  is  not  there- 
fore considered  merely  as  an  author.  The  hearts  of 
men  are  open  to  him  as  to  one  of  their  own  class  ;  and 
whether  he  exerts  himself  or  not  in  the  conversation- 
al circles  of  his  acquaintance,  his  silence  is  not  attri- 
buted to  pride,  nor  his  communicativeness  to  vanity. 
To  these  advantages  I  will  venture  to  add  a  superior 
chance  of  happiness  in  domestic  life,  were  it  only  that 
it  is  as  natural  for  the  man  to  be  out  of  the  circle  of 
his  household  during  the  day,  as  it  is  meritorious  for 
the  woman  to  remain  for  the  most  part  within  it.  But 
this  subject  involves  points  of  consideration  so  nu- 
merous and  so  delicate,  and  would  not  only  permit, 
but  require  such  ample  documents  from  the  biogra- 
phy of  literary  men,  that  I  now  merely  allude  to  it  in 
transitu.  When  the  same  circumstance  has  occur- 
red at  very  different  times  to  very  different  persons, 
all  of  whom  have  some  one  thing  in  common,  there 
is  reason  to  suppose  that  such  circumstance  is  not 
merely  attributable  to  the  persons  concerned,  but  is, 
in  some  measure,  occasioned  by  the  one  point  in 
common  to  them  all.  Instead  of  the  vehement  and 
almost  slanderous  dehortation  from  marriage,  which 
the  J[fisogyne,  in  Boccaccio,  addresses  to  literary 
men,  I  would  substitute  the  simple  advice :  be  not 
merely  a  man  of  letters !  Let  literature  be  an  ho- 
nourable augmentation  to  your  arms,  but  not  consti- 
tute the  coat,  or  fill  the  escutcheon  !     coleuidge. 


MY  SISTER. 


MiBTE  eyes  have  seen  the  beautiful, 

Mine  ears  have  heard  their  thrilling  voice, 

My  heart  has  felt  their  potent  rule — 
The  fears  of  hope,  the  hope  of  joys — 


182  THE    PHEMITTlff. 

But  never  has  my  sight  approved 

A  fairer  than  my  sister — no  I 
None  other  sound  so  much  hath  moved 

As  her  "  dear  brother"  spoken  low. 

AXOJf. 


BEAUTY  OF  FLOWERS  AND  SHELLS. 
Why,  for  example,  are  flowers  in  general  so  ex- 
quisitely beautiful  as  we  find  them,  if  it  be  not  to 
exhibit  to  us  the  hand  of  God,  and  to  afford  us,  even 
in  the  colouring  of  a  blossom,  a  manifestation  of 
himself,  and  a  rational  cause  for  turning  our 
thoughts  towards  him  1  Look  with  a  magnifier  at 
the  flower  of  London  pride,  or  of  Forget  me  not, 
and  inquire  of  yourself  why  these  minute  objects  are 
so  lovely,  why  scarcely  any  of  the  larger  flowers 
excel,  and  not  many  equal  them ;  extend  your  ob- 
servation to  some  of  the  minute  insects,  and  reflect 
why  they  are  dressed  in  colours  as  brilliant  as  those 
of  the  peacock  ;  magnify  a  gnat,  and  consider  the 
superb  feathered  antennse  which  grace  its  head,  exa- 
mine its  whole  structure,  see  the  wonderful  mechan- 
ism which  is  in  every  part,  the  minute  perfection, 
the  elaborate  finishing  of  this  little  being  ;  remember 
that,  in  addition  to  the  structure,  there  are  its  appe- 
tites and  functions,  its  organs  of  breathing,  its  mus- 
cles of  motion,  its  several  senses,  and  perhaps  its 
passions.  Think  on  these,  but  not  uith  the  transi- 
tory admiration  which  we  often  obser\'e  in  persons 
who  for  a  first  or  second  time  see  objects  in  a  mi- 
croscope. Be  not  content  with  the  cold  acknow- 
ledgment that  it  is  one  of  the  wonderful  woiks  of 
nature,  and  then  let  it  slip  from  your  memory.  I 
tell  you  it  is  the  work  of  God ;  and  I  believe  that 
the  too  liberal  use  of  the  term  nature,  has  given 


THE  PREMir?!.  183 

rise  to  much  of  the  apathy  with  which  the  ob- 
jects of  the  creation  are  regarded.  It  is  verj-  true, 
indeed,  that  when  we  say  nature  produces  a  plant, 
or  an  animal,  the  true  meaning  is  that  God  does 
so,  nature  here  being  used  as  a  synonymous  term  ; 
but  still  the  word  has  so  many  applications,  and 
it  is  employed  in  such  a  variety  of  ways,  that  we 
insensibly  get  into  the  habit  of  using  it,  in  natu- 
ral history  and  other  sciences,  as  if  it  were  some  in- 
ferior power,  or  agent,  acting  by  itself;  and  we  talk, 
of  the  works  of  nature  without  any  impression  being 
on  our  minds  at  the  time,  that  they  are  in  truth  the 
works  of  the  Deity  himself. 

To  prove  that  we  often  find  the  greatest  beauty 
where  we  might  least  expect  it,  let  us  examine  a 
fine  collection  of  shells.  The  animals  which  form 
and  inhabit  them,  generally  reside  in  situations 
where  it  is  almost  impossible  for  us  to  learn  anythmg 
of  their  history  :  but  see  what  compensation  we  have 
for  that.  The  skin  of  a  quadruped,  or  a  bird,  will 
soon  perish  unless  the  greatest  pains  have  been 
taken  to  preserve  it  by  some  antiseptic  wash  or  pow- 
der ;  and  if  it  be  stuffed,  every  care  is  required  to 
keep  it  from  damp  and  insects.  But  if  it  be  difficult 
to  preserve  a  quadruped  or  bird,  we  have  opportu- 
nities of  recording  its  history,  of  observing  its  ha- 
bits, and  of  adding  to  our  knowledge  of  it,  in  its 
living  state.  In  the  inhabitant  of  the  shell,  that  is 
next  to  impossible  ;  we  cannot  reside  with  it  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea.  We  cannot  study  its  manners, 
habits,  and  modes  of  working,  as  we  can  those  of  a 
bee.  But  of  all  objects  for  forming  a  beautiful  and 
permanent  collection,  the  coverings  in  which  the 
animals  reside,  are  perhaps  the  best.  These  co- 
verings, or  shells,  are  infinitely  varied  ;  some  are 
marked  with  the  most  rich  and  beautiful  colours,  and 


184  ,  THE    PREMIUM. 

with  the  greatest  variety  of  penciling ;  their  forms 
are  endless.  "  What,"  says  PHny,  "  can  be  more 
gratifying  than  to  view  nature  in  all  her  irregu- 
larities, and  sporting  in  her  variety  of  shells  !  such 
a  ditference  of  colour  do  they  exhibit !  such  a  differ- 
ence of  figure  !  flat,  concave,  long,  lineated,  drawn 
round  in  a  circle,  the  orbit  cut  in  two !  Some  are 
seen  with  a  rising  on  the  back,  some  smooth,  some 
wrinkled,  toothed,  streaked,  the  point  variously  in- 
torted,  the  mouth  pointing  like  a  dagger,  folded 
back,  bent  inward ;  all  these  variations,  and  many 
more,  furnish  at  once  novelty,  elegance  and  specu- 
lation." 

There  is  no  trouble  in  preserving  them,  there  is  no 
fear  of  their  decaying  by  time,  they  will  be  the  same 
in  fifty  years  as  they  are  to-day  ;  and  hence  if  there 
be  almost  insuperable  difficulties  in  getting  a  know- 
ledge of  the  inhabitants,  there  is  the  greatest  faci- 
lity of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  habitations. 
Many,  indeed,  object  to  conchology,  because  we 
cannot  learn  the  history  of  the  animals  themselves  ; 
but  though  we  may  regret  that  circumstance,  we 
should  not,  therefore,  disdain  giving  our  sanction  to 
the  science ;  for,  though  we  cannot  become  acquaint- 
ed \Vith  the  architect,  that  should  be  no  reason  for 
withholding  our  admiration  of  the  architecture,  and 
our  gratitude  should  be  raised  towards  the  Supreme 
Builder  of  all,  when  we  consider  that  he  has  so  or- 
dered that  innumerable  gelatinous  animals,  having 
perhaps  little  beauty  themselves,  should,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  ocean,  be  invested  with  such  elegant 
coverings  as  those  shells  are  which  our  cabinets  ex- 
hibit. Many  shell-fish,  I  must  however  observe, 
inhabit  the  sands  and  rocks  of  the  shores,  and  the 
history  and  structure  of  some  of  them  have  been  tole- 
rably well  ascertained.  dkxjmmoxd. 


THE  PREMIUM.  185 


AUGUST. 


The  quiet  August  noon  is  come  : 

A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  sky, 
The  fields  are  still,  the  woods  are  dumb. 

In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie. 
O,  how  unlike  those  merry  hours 

In  sunny  June,  when  earth  laughs  out ; 
"When  the  fresh  winds  make  love  to  flowers, 

And  woodlands  sing,  and  waters  shout ! — 
When  in  the  grass  sweet  waters  talk. 

And  strains  of  tiny  music  swell 
From  every  moss-cup  of  the  rock, 

From  every  nameless  blossom's  bell ! 
But  now  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 

A  peace  no  other  season  knows, 
Hushes  the  heavens,  and  wraps  the  ground — 

The  blessing  of  supreme  repose. 
Away  !   I  will  not  be,  to-day, 

The  only  slave  of  toil  and  care  ; 
Away  from  desk  and  dust  away 

I'll  be  as  idle  as  the  air. 
Beneath  the  open  sky  abroad, 

Among  the  plants  and  breathing  things, 
The  sinless,  peaceful  works  of  God, 

I'll  share  the  calm  the  season  brings. 
Come  thou,  in  whose  soft  eyes  I  see 

The  gentle  meaning  of  the  heart. 
One  day  amid  the  woods  with  thee. 

From  men  and  all  their  cares  apart ; 
And  where,  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 

The  shadow  of  the  thicket  lies. 
The  blue  wild  flowers  thou  gatherest 

Shall  glow  yet  deeper  near  thine  eyes. 
Come — and  when  'mid  the  calm  profound, 

I  turn  those  gentle  eyes  to  seek, 


186  THE  PREMITTM. 

They,  like  the  lovely  landscape  round, 

Of  innocence  and  peace  shall  speak. 
Rest  here,  beneath  the  unmoving  shade, 

And  on  the  silent  valleys  gaze. 
Winding  and  widening  till  they  fade 

In  yon  soft  ring  of  summer  haze. 
The  village  trees  their  summits  rear 

Still  as  its  spire  :  and  yonder  flock, 
At  rest  in  those  calm  fields  appear 

As  chiselled  from  the  lifeless  rock. 
One  tranquil  mount  the  scene  o'erlooks, 

Where  the  hushed  winds  their  Sabbath  keep, 
While  a  near  hum  from  bees  and  brooks, 

Comes  faintly  like  the  breath  of  sleep. 
Well  might  the  gazer  deem,  that  when, 

Worn  with  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 
And  heart-sick  at  the  sons  of  men, 

The  good  forsake  the  scenes  of  life, — 
Like  the  deep  quiet,  that  awhile 

Lingers  the  lovely  landscape  o'er. 
Shall  be  the  peace  whose  holy  smile 

Welcomes  them  to  a  happier  shore. 

BHTAXT. 


VALUE  OF  CLASSICAL  LEARNING. 

Ix  our  opinion  there  are  many  and  great  advan- 
tages to  be  derived  from  a  study  of  the  classics.  It 
must  be  allowed,  that  even  the  commentators  have 
not  been  without  their  use ;  they  have  often  thrown 
much  light  upon  history,  as  well  as  their  author ;  and 
afforded  great  faciUties  to  those  who  would  seek, 
with  higher  views,  what  is  really  valuable  in  the 
productions  of  Greece  and  Rome.    At  that  early 


THE  PREMIU>r.  187 

period  of  life,  when  the  languages  of  these  nations 
are  usually  learned,  their  study  affords  a  useful  dis- 
cipline to  the  mind,  which  could  not,  perhaps,  at 
that  age,  be  so  well  derived  from  any  other  source. 

In  discovering  the  meaning  of  a  passage,  there  is 
not  only  a  vigorous  exercise  of  the  powers  of  inven- 
tion and  comprehension,  but  in  that  grammatical 
analysis  of  each  sentence,  which  is  necessary  for 
this  purpose,  a  constant  process  of  reasoning  is  car- 
ried on.  By  translation,  a  youth,  while  he  acquires 
that  copiousness  of  expression  so  much  insisted  on 
by  QuinctiUan,  forms,  at  the  same  time,  the  habit 
of  nicely  discriminating  the  import  of  words,  and 
perceiving  their  minutest  shades  of  diifiference,  and 
this  much  more  from  the  dead  than  living  languages, 
because  their  idiom  and  modes  of  combination  vary 
more  from  our  own. 

The  importance  of  the  early  formation  of  this  habit 
will  be  obvious  to  those  who  consider  that  language 
is  not  only  the  vehicle  of  our  thoughts,  when  we  im- 
part them  to  others,  but  the  very  body  in  which  they 
appear  to  ourselves.  We  think  in  propositions,  and 
in  proportion  to  the  propriety  and  definiteness  of 
our  words,  will  be  those  of  our  ideas.  It  is  true  that, 
during  the  period  we  have  mentioned,  many  facts 
in  geography,  civil  and  even  natural  history,  might 
be  stored  in  the  memory.  But,  not  to  mention  that, 
especially  with  the  children  of  the  wealthy,  there  is 
time  enough  for  all  these,  we  hold  it  to  be  a  maxim, 
that  discipline,  rather  than  knowledge,  should  be  the 
object  of  education. 

We  do  not  consider  that  youth  as  best  taught  who 
has  read  or  knows  the  most,  but  him  who  carries 
into  the  world  an  understanding  formed  successfully 
to  grapple  with  whatever  subject  may  be  proposed, 
and  most   able,  in  whatever  situation  he  may  be 


188  THE  PREMilUM. 

placed,  to  think  and  act  with  sagacity,  with  truth 
and  eftect  The  languages  of  the  classics,  once  ac- 
quired, open  to  the  maturer  taste  and  judgment  all 
the  stores  of  ancient  wisdom,  poetry  and  eloquence. 
Nor  is  it  a  slight  knowledge  of  the  character  and 
manners  of  a  people,  their  habit  of  thinking  and 
feeling,  their  progress  in  philosophy  and  morals, 
which  may  be  obtained  from  the  mere  vocabulary 
and  peculiar  modes  of  expression  prevalent  among 
them.  To  be  convinced  of  this,  we  have  but  to 
recollect  how  many  ideas  in  intellectual  and  moral 
science,  and  even  more  in  the  relations,  duties  and 
endearments  of  domestic  Ufe,  are,  with  their  appro- 
priate terms,  common  among  us,  which  cannot  be 
expressed  in  the  language  of  the  Romans. 

FttlSBIE. 


THE  IVY. 

Wht  is  it  that  every  one  is  pleased  with  the  com- 
mon ivy  1  There  is  a  charm  about  that  plant  which 
all  feel,  but  none  can  tell  why.  Observe  it  hanging 
from  the  arch  of  some  old  bridge,  and  consider  the 
degree  of  interest  it  gives  to  that  object.  The  bridge 
itself  may  be  beautifully  situated ;  the  stream  pass- 
ing through  its  arches  clear  and  copious ;  but  still 
it  is  the  ivy  which  gives  the  finish  and  picturesque 
effect.  Mouldering  towers,  and  castles,  and  ruined 
cloisters,  interest  our  feelings  in  a  degree  more  or 
less  by  the  circumstance  of  their  being  covered  or 
not  by  the  ivy.  Precipices,  which  else  would  exhi- 
bit only  their  naked,  barren  walls,  are  clothed  by  it 
in  a  rich  and  beautiful  vesture..  Old  trees,  whose 
trunks  it  surrounds,  assume  a  great  variety  of  as- 
pect ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  a  most  important  agent  m, 


TBE  PHEMIUM,  189 

forming  the  beauty  and  variety  of  rural  landscape. 
It  is  also  as  useful  as  it  is  beautiful ;  and  among  its 
uses  I  would  include  the  very  thing  of  which  I  am 
now  speaking,  for  I  have  no  idea  that  the  forms  and 
colours  in  nature  please  the  eye  by  a  sort  of  chance. 
If  I  admire  the  ivy  clinging  to  and  surmounting 
some  time-worn  tower,  and  the  various  tints  that 
diversify  the  parts  of  the  ruin  not  hidden  by  it,  I 
can  only  refer  the  pleasure  I  experience  to  the  na- 
tural construction  of  the  human  mind,  which  the 
Almighty  has  formed  to  feel  a  pleasure  in  contem- 
plating the  external  world  around  it.  Who  is  in- 
sensible to  the  beauties  of  nature  at  the  rising  and 
setting  of  the  summer's  sun  1  Who  can  behold 
the  moonbeams  reflected  from  some  silent  river,  lake, 
or  sea,  and  not  feel  happy  in  the  sight  1  None,  I 
believe,  in  early  life.  When  hardened  in  the  ways 
of  men — when  the  chief  good  pursued  is  the  accu- 
mulation of  wealth,  the  acquisition  of  power,  or  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  so  called, — then  manldnd  lose 
a  sense  of  the  beauties  of  nature ;  but  never,  per- 
haps, till  then.  A  love  for  them  is  inherent  in  the 
mind,  and  almost  always  shows  itself  in  youth  ; 
and  if  cherished  at  that  period,  by  education,  would 
seldom  be  destroyed  or  become  dormant  in  after 
life,  as  it  now  so  generally  is. 

The  ivy  is  of  vast  advantage  to  the  smaller  birds, 
as  it  affords  them  shelter  in  winter,  and  a  retreat  for 
building  their  nests  in  spring  and  summer.  It  is 
in  fructification  in  October  and  November,  and  the 
sweet  juice  which  its  flowers  exude  supports  an  in- 
finity of  insects  in  autumn,  while  its  berries  are  a 
store  of  nutriment  for  many  birds  in  early  spring. 

BRUMMOXD. 


190  THE    PREMIUM. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  LA  PS- 
ROUSE'S  VOYAGES. 

Loved  Voyager  !  whose  pages  had  a  zest 
More  sweet  than  fiction  to  ray  wand'ring  breast, 
When,  tapt  in  fancy,  many  a  boyish  day 
I  track'd  his  wanderings  o'er  the  watery  way, 
Roam'd  round  the  Aleutian  isles  in  waking  dream8> 
Or  pluck'd  the^fleur-de-Iys  by  Jesso's  streams-— 
Or  gladly  leap'd  on  that  far  Tartar  strand, 
When  Europe's  anchor  ne'er  had  bit  the  sand, 
Where  scarce  a  roving  wild  tribe  cross'd  the  plain, 
Or  human  voice  broke  nature's  silent  reign  ; 
But  vast  and  grassy  deserts  feed  the  bear, 
And  sweeping  deer-herds  dread  no  hunter's  snare. 
Such  young  delight  his  real  records  brought, 
His  truth  so  touch'd  romantic  springs  of  thought, 
That  all  my  after-life— his  fate  and  fame, 
Entwined  romance  with  La  Perouse's  name. — 
Fair  were  his  ships,  expert  his  gallant  crews, — • 
And  glorious  was  the  emprise  of  La  Perouse, 
Humanely  glorious  !  Men  will  weep  for  him, 
When  many  a  guilty  martial  fame  is  dim  : 
He  plough'd  the  deep  to  bind  no  captive's  chain- 
Pursued  no  rapine — strew'd  no  wreck  with  slain ; 
And,  save  that  in  the  deep  themselves  lie  low, 
His  heroes  pluck'd  no  wreath  from  human  woe. 
'Twas  his  the  earth's  remotest  bounds  to  scan, 
Conciliating  with  gifts  barbaric  man-— 
Enrich  the  world's  contemporaneous  mind, 
And  ampUfy  the  picture  of  mankind. 
Far  on  the  vast  Pacific — midst  those  isles, 
O'er  which  the  earliest  morn  of  Asia  smiles, 
He  sounded  and  gave  charts  to  many  a  shore 
And  gulf  of  Ocean  new  to  nautic  lore ; 


THE  PREMIUM.  191 

Yet  he  that  led  discovery  o'er  the  wave, 

Still  fills  himself  an  undiscovered  grave. 

He  came  not  back, — Conjecture's  cheek  grew  pale, 

Year  after  year — in  no  propitious  gale, 

His  lilied  banner  held  its  homeward  way, 

And  science  saddened  at  her  marty'rs  stay 

An  age  elapsed — no  wreck  told  where  or  when 

The  chief  went  down  with  all  his  gallant  men, 

Or  whether  by  the  storm  or  wild  sea  flood 

He  perished,  or  by  wilder  men  of  blood — 

The  shudd'ring  Fancy  only  guessed  his  doom, 

And  Doubt  to  Sorrow  gave  but  deeper  gloom. 

An  age  elapsed — when  men  were  dead  or  gray, 

Whose  hearts  had  mourned  him  in  their  youthful 

day; 
Fame  traced  on  Mannicolo's  shore  at  last, 
The  boiling  surge  had  mounted  o'er  his  mast. 
The  islesmen  told  of  some  survi^^ng  men. 
But  Christian  eyes  beheld  them  ne'er  again. 
Sad  bourne  of  all  his  toils — with  all  his  band- 
To  sleep,  wreck'd,  shroudless,  on  a  savage  strand. 
Yet  what  is  all  that  fires  a  hero's  scorn 
Of  death  ] — the  hope  to  live  in  hearts  unborn 
Life  to  the  brave  is  not  its  fleeting  breath, 
But  worth — foretasting  fame  that  follows  death. 
That  worth  had  La  Perouse — that  meed  he  won  i 
He  sleeps — his  hfe's  long  stormy  watch  is  done. 
In  the  great  deep,  whose  boundaries  and  space 
He  measured.  Fate  ordained  his  resting-place ; 
But  bade  his  fame,  like  the  Ocean  rolling  o'er 
His  relics — visit  every  earthly  shore. 
Fair  Science  on  that  Ocean's  azure  robe, 
Still  writes  his  name  in  picturing  the  globe, 
And  painst — (what  fairer  wreath  could  glory  twine!) 
His  watery  course — a  world-encircUng  line. 

CAMFH£LIm 


198  THE  PREMIU3I. 


RECEPTION  OF  COLUMBUS  ON  HIS  RETURN  TO 
SPAIN. 

The  fame  of  his  discovery  bad  resounded  through- 
out the  nation,  and  as  his  route  lay  through  several 
of  the  finest  and  most  populous  provinces  of  Spain, 
his  journey  appeared  like  the  progress  of  a  sove- 
reign. Wherever  he  passed,  the  surrounding  coun- 
try poured  forth  its  inhabitants,  who  lined  the  road 
and  thronged  the  N'illages.  In  the  large  towns,  the 
streets,  windows,  and  balconies,  were  filled  with 
eager  spectators,  who  rent  the  air  with  acclama- 
tions. His  journey^  was  continually  impeded  by 
the  multitude  pressing  to  gain  a  sight  of  him,  and 
of  the  Indians,  who  were  regarded  with  as  much 
admiration  as  if  they  had  been  natives  of  another 
planet.  It  was  impossible  to  satisfy  the  craving 
curiosity  which  assailed  himself  and  his  attendants, 
at  every  stage,  with  innumerable  questions:  popular 
rumour,  as  usual,  had  exaggerated  the  truth,  and  had 
filled  the  newly-found  country  with  all  kinds  of 
wonders. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  April,  that  Columbus 
arrived  at  Barcelona,  where  every  preparation  had 
been  made  to  give  him  a  solemn  and  magnificent 
reception.  The  beauty  and  serenity  of  the  weather, 
in  that  genial  season  and  favoured  climate,  contri- 
buted to  give  splendour  to  this  memorable  ceremony. 
As  he  drew  near  the  place,  many  of  the  more  youth- 
ful courtiers,  and  hidalgos  of  gallant  bearing,  to- 
gether with  a  vast  concourse  of  the  populace,  came 
forth  to  meet  and  welcome  him.  His  entrance  into 
this  noble  city  has  been  compared  to  one  of  those 
triumphs  which  the  Romans  were  accustomed  to  de- 
cree to  conquerors.  First  were  paraded  the  Indians, 
painted  according  to  their  savage  fashion,  and  deco- 


THE  PREMIUM.  193 

rated  with  tropical  feathers,  and  with  their  national 
ornaments  of  gold  ;  after  these  were  borne  various 
kinds  of  live  parrots,  together  with  stuffed  birds  and 
animals  of  unknown  species,  and  rare  plants,  sup- 
posed to  be  of  precious  qualities  :  while  great  care 
was  taken  to  make  a  conspicuous  display  of  Indian 
coronets,  bracelets,  and  other  decorations  of  gold, 
which  might  give  an  idea  of  the  wealth  of  the  newly- 
discovered  regions.  After  these  followed  Columbus, 
on  horseback,  surrounded  by  a  brilliant  cavalcade 
of  Spanish  chivalry.  The  streets  were  almost  im- 
passable from  the  countless  multitude  ;  the  windows 
and  balconies  were  crowded  with  the  fair;  the 
very  roofs  were  covered  with  spectators.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  public  eye  could  not  be  sated  with  gazing 
on  these  trophies  of  an  unknown  world,  or  on  the 
remarkable  man  by  whom  it  had  been  discovered. 
There  was  a  sublimity  in  this  event  that  mingled  a 
solemn  feeling  with  the  public  joy.  It  was  looked 
upon  as  a  vast  and  signal  dispensation  of  Providence 
in  reward  for  the  piety  of  the  monarchs  ;  and  the  ma- 
jestic and  venerable  appearance  of  the  discoverer, 
so  different  from  the  youth  and  buoyancy  that  are 
generally  expected  from  roving  enterprise,  seemed 
in  harmony  with  the  grandeur  and  dignity  of  his 
achievement 

To  receive  him  with  suitable  pomp  and  distinc- 
tion, the  sovereigns  had  ordered  their  throne  to  be 
placed  in  public,  under  a  rich  canopy  of  brocade  of 
gold,  in  a  vast  and  splendid  saloon.  Here  the  king 
and  queen  awaited  his  arrival,  seated  in  state  with 
the  prince  Juan  beside  them,  and  attended  by  the 
dignitaries  of  their  court,  and  the  principal  nobility 
of  Castile,  Valentia,  Catalonia,  and  Arragon,  all 
impatient  to  behold  the  man  who  had  conferred 
so  incalculable  a  benefit  upon  the  nation.  At 
N 


194  THK    pnEMItJM. 

length  Columbus  entered  the  hall,  surrounded  by 
a  brilliant  crowd  of  cavaliers,  among  whom,  says 
Las  Casas,  he  was  conspicuous  for  his  stately  and 
commanding  person,  which,  with  his  countenance 
rendered  venerable  by  his  gray  hairs,  gave  him  the 
august  appearance  of  a  senator  of  Rome.  A  modest 
smile  lighted  up  his  features,  showing  that  he  en- 
joyed the  state  and  glory  in  which  he  came  ;  and 
certainly  nothing  could  be  more  deeply  moving,  to 
a  mind  inflamed  by  noble  ambition,  and  conscious 
of  having  greatly  deserved,  than  these  testimonials 
of  the  admiration  and  gratitude  of  a  nation,  or  ra- 
ther of  a  "world.  As  Columbus  approached,  the 
sovereigns  rose,  as  if  receiving  a  person  of  the 
highest  rank.  Bending  his  knees,  he  requested  to 
kiss  their  hands  ;  but  there  was  some  hesitation  on 
the  part  of  their  majesties  to  permit  this  act  of  vas- 
salage. Raising  him  in  the  most  gracious  manner, 
they  ordered  him  to  seat  himself  in  their  presence; 
a  rare  honour  in  this  proud  and  punctilious  court. 

At  the  request  of  their  majesties,  Columbus  now 
gave  an  account  of  the  most  striking  events  of  his 
voyage,  and  a  description  of  the  islands  which  he 
had  discovered.  He  displayed  the  specimens  he 
had  brought  of  unknown  birds  and  other  animals ; 
of  rare  plants,  of  medicinal  and  aromatic  virtue ; 
of  native  gold,  in  dust,  in  crude  masses,  or  laboured 
into  barbaric  ornaments ;  and,  above  all,  the  natives 
of  these  countries,  who  were  objects  of  intense  and 
inexhaustible  interest;  since  there  is  nothing  to 
man  so  curious  as  the  varieties  of  his  own  species. 
All  these  he  pronounced  mere  harbingers  of  greater 
discoveries  he  had  yet  to  make,  which  would  add 
realms  of  incalculable  wealth  to  the  dominions  of 
their  majesties,  and  whole  nations  of  proselytes  to 
the  true  faith. 


TH£  PREMltM.  195 

The  words  of  Columbus  were  listened  to  with 
profound  emotion  by  the  sovereigr.s.  When  he 
had  finished,  they  sunk  on  their  knees,  and  raising 
their  clasped  hands  to  heaven,  their  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  joy  and  gratitude,  they  poured  forth  thanks 
and  praises  to  God  for  so  great  a  providence ;  all 
present  followed  their  example  ;  a  deep  and  solemn 
enthusiasm  pervaded  that  splendid  assembly,  and 
prevented  all  common  acclamations  of  triumph.  The 
anthem  of  Te  Deum  laiidaimis,  chanted  bj-  the 
choir  of  the  royal  chapel,  with  the  melodious  ac- 
companiments of  the  instruments,  rose  up  from  the 
midst,  in  a  full  body  of  sacred  harmony,  bearing  up, 
as  it  were,  the  feelings  and  thoughts  of  the  auditors 
to  heaven,  "  so  that,"  says  the  venerable  Las  Casas, 
"  it  seemed  as  if  in  that  hour  they  communicated 
with  celestial  deUghts."  8uch  was  the  solemn  and 
pious  manner  in  which  the  brilliant  court  of  Spain, 
celebrated  this  subUme  event :  offering  up  a  grateful 
tribute  of  melody  and  praise  ;  and  giving  glory  to 
God  for  the  discovery  of  another  world. 

When  Columbus  retired  from  the  royal  presence, 
he  was  attended  to  his  residence  by  all  the  court, 
and  followed  by  the  shouting  populace.  For  many 
days  he  was  the  object  of  universal  curiosity,  and 
wherever  he  appeared,  he  was  surrounded  by  an 
admiring  multitude.  w.  irtixg. 


THE  STAR. 

A  SINGLE  star 


Is  rising  in  the  east,  and  fi-om  afar 
Sheds  a  most  tremulous  lustre  :  silent  night 
Doth  wear  it  like  a  jewel  on  her  brow  ; 
But  see  !  it  motions  with  its  lovely  light, 


196  THE  premium;. 

Onwards  and  onwards  through  those  depths  of  blue, 
To  its  appointed  course  steadfast  and  true. 

BAHRY  CORNWALL. 


EXTRACT. 

"  Feelixgs,   of    unremembered   pleasures ;   such, 

perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love."  wordswohth. 


"  Death,  father,  death  is  comfortless  and  cold ! 
Aye  me !  when  maiden  dies,  the  smiling  mom, 
The  wild  birds  singing  on  the  twinkling  spray, 
Wake  her  no  more  ;  the  summer  wind  breathes  soft. 
Waving  the  fresh  grass  o'er  her  narrow  bed, 
Gladdening  to  all  but  her.     Senseless  and  cold 
She  lies  :  while  all  she  loved,  unheard,  unseen, 
Mouni  round  her."  MiL:MAir. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  ROMAN  DOMINION. 

The  general  principles  of  Rome,  in  the  govern- 
ment of  her  conquest,  were  manly  and  wise.  When 
the  soldier  had  done  his  work;  and  it  was  done 
vigorously,  yet  with  but  little  violence  beyond  that 
which  was  essential  for  complete  subjugation ;  the 
sword  slept  as  an  instrument  of  evil,  and  awoke 
only  as  an  instrument  of  justice. 

I'he  Roman  supremacy  extinguished  the  innu- 


THE  PRE3IIUM.  197 

merable  and  harassing  mischiefs  of  minor  hostility. 
If  neighbour  kingdoms  quarrelled,  a  legion  marched 
across  the  border,  and  brought  the  belligerents  to 
sudden  reason;  dismissed  the  armies  to  their  hearths 
and  altars,  and  sent  the  angry  chiefs  to  reconcile 
their  claims  in  an  Italian  dungeon-.  If  a  disputed 
succession  threatened  to  embroil  the  general  peace, 
the  proconsul  ordered  the  royal  competitors  to 
embark  for  Rome,  and  there  settle  the  right  before 
the  senate. 

The  barbaric  invasions,  which  had  periodically 
ravaged  the  Eastern  empires,  even  in  their  day  of 
power,  were  repelled  with  a  terrible  vigour.  The 
legions  left  the  desert  covered  with  the  tribe,  for  the 
food  of  the  vulture  ;  and  showed  to  Europe  the 
haughty  leaders  of  the  Tartar,  Gothic  and  Arab 
myriads  in  fetters,  dragging  wains,  digging  in  mines, 
or  sweeping  the  highways. 

If  peace  could  be  an  equivalent  for  freedom,  the 
equivalent  was  never  so  amply  secured.  The  world 
within  this  iron  boundary  flourished  ;  the  activity 
and  talent  of  man  were  urged  to  the  highest  pitch  : 
the  conquered  countries  were  turned  from  wastes 
and  forests  into  fertility :  ports  were  dug  upon  na- 
ked shores ;  cities  swelled  from  villages ;  population 
spread  over  the  soil  once  pestilential  and  breeding 
only  the  poisonous  weed  and  the  serpent.  The  sea 
was  covered  with  trade ;  the  pirate  and  the  maraud- 
er were  unheard  of,  or  hunted  down.  Commercial 
enterprise  shot  its  lines  and  communications  over 
the  map  of  the  earth  ;  and  regions  were  then  fami- 
liar, which  even  the  activity  of  the  revived  ages  of 
Europe  had  scarcely  made  known. 

Those  were  the  wonders  of  great  power  steadily 
directed  to  a  great  purpose.  General  coercion  was  the 
simple  principle ;  and  the  only  talisman  of  a  Roman 


198  THE    PREMIUM. 

Emperor  was  the  chain,  but  where  it  was  casually 
commuted  for  the  sword :  yet  the  universality  of 
the  compression  atoned  for  half  its  evil.  The  natural 
impulse  of  man  is  to  improvement ;  he  requires  only 
security  from  rapine.  The  Roman  supremacy  rais- 
ed round  him  an  impregnable  wall.  It  was  the  true 
government  for  an  era  when  the  habits  of  reason 
had  not  penetrated  the  general  human  mind.  Its 
chief  evil  was  in  its  restraint  of  those  nobler  and 
loftier  aspirations  of  genius  and  the  heart,  which 
from  time  to  time  raise  the  general  scale  of  mankind. 
Nothing  is  more  observable  than  the  decay  of  origi- 
nal literature,  of  the  finer  architecture,  and  of  philo- 
sophical invention,  under  the  empire.  Even  military 
genius,  the  natural  product  of  a  system  that  lived 
but  on  military  fame,  disappeared ;  the  brilliant  di- 
versity of  warlike  talent,  that  shone  on  the  very  verge 
of  the  succession  of  the  Caesars,  sank,  like  falling 
stars,  to  rise  no  more.  No  captain  was  again  to 
display  the  splendid  conceptions  of  Pompey's  bound- 
less campaigns  ;  the  lavish  heroism  and  inexhausti- 
ble resource  of  Antony ;  or  the  mixture  of  undaunt- 
ed personal  enterprise  and  profound  tactic,  the 
statesman-like  thought,  irrestrainable  ambition,  and 
high-minded  forgiveness,  that  made  Caesar  the  very 
emblem  of  Rome.  But  the  Imperial  power  had  the 
operation  of  one  of  those  great  laws  of  nature,  which 
through  partial  evil  sustain  the  earth — a  gravitating 
principle,  which,  if  it  checked  the  ascent  of  some 
gifted  Beings  beyond  the  dull  level  of  life,  yet  kept 
the  infinite  multitude  of  men  and  things  from  flying 
loose  beyond  all  litility  and  all  control. 

CROLX. 


THE    PBEMIUM.  !99 

ON  SEEING  IN  A  LIST  OF  MUSIC  THE  "  WATER. 
LOO  WALTZ." 

A  MOMEXT,  pause,  ye  British  fair, 

While  pleasure's  phantom  ye  pursue, 
And  say  if  sprightly  dance  or  Em- 
Suit  with  the  name  of  "  Waterloo  1" 
Awful  was  the  victory, 
Chasten'd  should  the  triumph  be  ; 
Amidst  the  laurels  nobly  won 
Britain  mourns  for  many  a  son. 

Veil'd  in  clouds  the  morning  rose ; 
Nature  seem'd  to  mourn  the  day 
Which  consign'd,  before  its  close, 
Thousands  to  their  kindred  clay. 
How  unfit  for  courtly  ball, 
Or  the  giddy  festival, 
Was  the  grim  and  ghastly  view. 
Ere  evening  closed  on  Waterloo  ! 

See  the  highland  warrior  rushing, 

Firm  in  danger,  on  the  foe. 
Till  the  life-blood,  warmly  gushing, 
Lays  the  plaided  hero  low  ! 

His  native  pipes'  accustomed  sound, 
'Mid  war's  infernal  concert  drown'd, 
Cannot  soothe  the  last  adieu, 
Or  wake  his  sleep  on  Waterloo. 

Chasing  o'er  the  cuirassier. 

See  the  foaming  charger  flying, 
Trampling  in  his  wild  career, 
All  alike,  the  dead  and  dying. 

Sec  the  bullets  through  his  side 
Answer'd  by  the  spouting  tide ; 
Helmet,  horse,  and  rider  too, 
Roll  on  bloody  Waterloo  ! 


200  THE    PREMIUM. 

Shall  scenes  like  these  the  dance  Inspire, 

Or  wake  the  enlivening  notes  of  mirth  1 
No  !  shiver'd  be  the  recreant  lyre 
That  gave  this  dark  idea  birth. 

Other  sounds  I  ween  were  there. 
Other  music  rent  the  air, 
Other  waltz  the  warriors  knew, 
When  they  closed  on  Waterloo  ! , 

Forbear,  till  time,  with  lenient  hand. 

Has  sooth'd  the  pangs  of  recent  sorrow, 
And  let  the  picture  distant  stand, 

The  softening  hue  of  years  to  borrow. 
When  our  race  have  passed  away, 
Hands  unborn  may  wake  the  lay, 
And  give  to  joy  alone  the  view 
Of  Britons'  deeds  at  Waterloo ! 

ASOTX, 


TRUST  IN  PROVIDENCE. 


' How  beautiful  this  dome  of  sky. 

And  the  vast  hills,  in  fluctuation  fixed 

At  thy  command,  how  awful !  Shall  the  Soul, 

Human  and  rational,  report  of  Thee 

Even  less  than  these  1 — Be  mute,  who  will,  who  can, 

Yet  I  will  praise  thee  with  impassioned  voice  : 

My  Ups,  that  may  forget  thee  in  the  crowd. 

Cannot  forget  thee  here ;  where  Thou  hast  built, 

For  thy  own  glory  in  the  wilderness ! 

Me  didst  thou  constitute  a  priest  of  thine, 

In  such  a  temple  as  we  now  behold 

Reared  for  thy  presence  ;  therefore  am  I  bound 

To  worship,  here,  and  everywhere — as  One 

Not  doomed  to  ignorance,  though  forced  to  tread. 


THE  PREMIUM!.  201 

From  childhood  up,  the  ways  of  poverty  ; 

From  unreflecting  ignorance  preserved, 

And  from  debasement  rescued.     By  thy  grace 

The  particle  di\'ine  remained  unquenched  ; 

And,  'mid  the  wild  weeds  of  a  rugged  soil, 

Thy  bounty  caused  to  flourish  deathless  flowers, 

From  Paradise  transplanted.     Wintry  age 

Impends  ;  the  frost  will  gather  round  my  heart ; 

And,  if  they  wither,  I  am  worse  than  dead ! 

— Come  labour,  when  the  worn-out  frame  requires 

Perpetual  Sabbath ;  come  disease  and  want : 

And  sad  exclusion  through  decay  of  sense  ; 

But  leave  me  unabated  trust  in  Thee — 

And  let  thy  favour,  to  the  end  of  life, 

Inspire  me  with  abiUty  to  seek 

Repose  and  hope  among  eternal  things — 

Father  of  heaven  and  earth  !  and  I  am  rich 

And  will  possess  my  portion  in  content ! 

WORDSWOHTH. 


WHAT  THEN  ? 


OiTE  orator  exhorts  the  people  to  refuse  payment 
of  the  taxes  ;  another  recommends  that  the  national 
debt  should  be  extinguished  by  a  vote  of  parliament 
— parliament  of  course  being  previously  reformed, 
so  that  it  may  consist  of  representatives  who  will 
not  scruple  at  passing  such  a  vote ;  a  third,  advises 
that  the  tithes  be  sold,  and  the  produce  funded ;  a 
fourth,  demands  universal  suffrage  ; — and  some  of 
these  united  politicians  engage  never  to  cease  their 
exertions,  till  they  shall  have  obtained  what  they 
call  speedy,  radical,  and  effectual  reform  ; — patient 
endurance,  they  tell  us,  shall  not  be  their  fate,  they 
will  not  be  still,  their  cry  shall  be  too  general  to  be 


202  THE  pnEMiu>r. 

mistaken,  and  too  powerful  to  be  resisted.  Were 
there  any  limits  to  human  folly  and  human  wicked- 
ness, it  would  be  incredible  that  there  should  be 
men  erroneous  enough,  and  criminal  enough — with 
with  the  example  of  France  before  their  eyes 
(fresh  and  reeking  as  those  horrors  are  !)  to  hold 
forth  language  like  this,  and  exert  themselves  zeal- 
ously and  perseveringly  to  convince  the  mob  that 
the  physical  force  is  in  their  hands,  and  that  it  is 
their  own  fault  if  they  submit  longer  to  be  governed 
by  the  educated  and  intellectual  part  of  their  coun- 
trymen. Have  these  persons  ever  asked  themselves 
what  would  be  the  consequence  of  the  measures 
which  they  advise  ] — if  universal  suffrage  were  es- 
tablished, whether  it  would  afford  universal  employ- 
ment for  the  quiet  and  industrious  part  of  the  peo- 
ple, as  surely  as  it  would  for  the  worthless,  the  tur- 
bulent, the  mischievous,  and  the  wicked  1 — if  the 
church  property  were  seized,  whether  the  title-deeds 
of  the  landholder  would  long  be  considered  as  giving 
him  an  indefeasible  right  to  his  estates  1 — if  the 
national  debt  were  extinguished,  whether  the  public 
would  be  benefited  by  the  ruin  of  the  funded  pro- 
prietors, that  is,  whether  the  body  would  derive  ad- 
vantage from  having  one  of  the  limbs  paralysed] 
and  whether  national  prosperity  be  the  natural  and 
necessary  consequence  of  national  bankruptcy,  the 
breach  of  national  faith,  and  the  loss  of  national 
character  ? — finally,  if  the  people,  according  to  the 
advice  of  one  of  these  popular  representatives,  were 
to  refuse  payment  of  the  taxes — What  thej^  1  Let 
these  men  suppose  themselves  successful  in  their 
projects,  and  following  in  imagination  the  career  of 
their  ambition,  ask  themselves  this  question  at  every 
step — WHAT  THEX  1  If  they  should  succeed  in  in- 
stigating the  people  to  resistance,  to  rebellion,  to 


THE  PREMIUM.  203 

civil  war,  to  revolution,  what  then  1  What  might 
be  the  consequences  to  this  great,  this  glorious,  this 
venerable  countr}^  He  alone  can  tell  without  whose 
inscrutable  will  no  calamity  can  befall  us  ;  but  the 
consequences  to  themselves  may  be  foretold  with 
perfect  certainty — guilt,  insecurity,  fear,  misery, 
ruin,  unavailing  repentance,  violent  death,  and  in- 
famy everlasting.  It  was  remarked,  by  one  of  the 
numerous  French  demagogues  who  fell  into  the  pit 
which  they  had  digged,  that  revolutions  were  like 
Saturn,  and  devoured  their  own  children.  '  Should 
there  be  a  revolution  in  the  other  world,'  said  Dan- 
ton,  to  one  of  his  friends,  when  on  their  way  to 
the  guillotine — '  take  my  advice  and  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it !'  Danton  asked  pardon  of  God  and 
man  for  having  instituted  the  Revolutionary  Tribu- 
nal :  it  was  only  on  the  tirst  anniversary  of  its  institu- 
tion that  he  was  carried  before  it  to  receive  sentence 
himself — so  short  is  the  reign  of  a  revolutionist ! 

SOUTHET. 


PARENTAL  AFFECTION. 

Thet  sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  die  ! 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 
All  others  are  but  vanity. 

In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell ; 

Earthly  these  passions  of  the  earth, 

They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth. 
But  Love  is  indestructible, 
Its  holy  flame  forever  bumeth, 

From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  retumeth 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  opprest, 


204 


THE  PREMIUM. 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 

Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest : 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 

But  the  harvest  time  of  love  is  there. 

Oh  !  when  a  mother  meets  on  high 
The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy, 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 

The  day  of  wo,  the  watchful  night, 

For  all  her  sorrows,  all  her  tears, 

An  over  payment  of  delight  1         southet. 


THE  CHASE. 

The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill 
When  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill, 
And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 
In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade; 
But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 
Had  kindled  on  Benvoirhch  s  head. 
The  deep-mouthed  blood-hound's  heavy  bi 
Resounded  up  the  rocky  way. 
And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne, 
Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 

As  chief  who  hears  his  warder  call, 

*  To  arms !  the  foemen  storm  the  wall,' — 

The  antlered  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprung  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

But,  ere  his  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook: 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high. 

Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky  : 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  Ustened  to  the  cry. 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh ; 


THE  PHEMirar.  205 

Then,  as  the  headmost,  foes  appeared, 
With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared, 
And  stretching  forward  free  and  far, 
Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 

Yelled  on  the  view  the  opening  pack, 
Rock,  glen  and  cavern  paid  them  back ; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awakened  mountain  gave  response. 
An  hundred  dogs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 
Clattered  an  hundred  steeds  along. 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rung  out, 
An  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout  : 
With  hark  and  whoop  and  wild  halloo 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echo  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe, 
Close  in  the  covert  cowered  the  doe. 
The  falcon  from  her  earn  on  high, 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye. 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Returned  from  cavern,  cliif  and  linn, 
And  silence  settled  wide  and  still, 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern,  where  'tis  told 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old  ; 
For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won, 
High  in  his  path-way  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stayed  per-force, 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse : 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer. 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near ; 


206  THE  PHEMIUM. 

So  shrewilly  on  the  mountain  side, 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried* 

The  noble  stag  was  pausing  now 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow  ', 
Where  broad  extended  far  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Monteith. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wandered  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor. 
And  pondered  refuge  fi'om  his  toil, 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copse-wood  gray, 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch  Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine  trees  blue, 
On  the  bold  clifts  of  Ben-venue. 
Fresh  vigour  with  the  hope  returned. 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurned 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race, 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 

'T  were  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er, 
As  s\\'ept  the  hunt  through  C ambus-more  ; 
What  reins  were  tightened  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air; 
Who  flagged  upon  Bochastle's  heath, 
Who  shunned  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith.— 
For  twice,  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  gallant  stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far, 
That  reached  the  lake  of  Vennachar  : 
And  when  the  brigg  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  horseman  rode  alone. 

Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal. 
That  horseman  plied  the  scourge  and  steel : 
For,  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil. 
Embossed  with  foam,  and  dark  with  soil, 


THE    PUEMIU^r.  207 

While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew, 

The  labouring  stag  strained  full  in  view. 

Two  dogs  of  black  St.  Hubert's  breed, 

Unmatched  for  courage,  breath  and  speed, 

Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came, 

And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game  ; 

For,  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch, 

Vindictive  toiled  the  blood-hounds  stanch  ; 

Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain. 

Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain. 

Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake. 

Between  the  precipice  and  brake, 

O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

The  hunter  marked  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary. 
And  deemed  the  stag  must  turn  to  bay, 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barred  the  way ; 
Already  glorying  in  the  prize, 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes  ; 
For  the  death-wound  and  death  halloo. 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  whinyard  drew ; 
But,  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared, 
The  wily  quarry  shunned  the  shock. 
And  turned  him  from  the  opposing  rock ; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen. 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken. 
In  the  deep  Trosach's  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There,  while  close  couched,  the  thicket  shed. 
Cold  dews  and  wild  flowers  on  his  head, 
He  heard  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain, 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yelled  again. 


208  THE  PREMIUM. 

But  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell, 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 

The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein. 
For  the  good  steed,  his  labours  o'er, 
Stretched  his  stiff  limbs,  to  rise  no  more 
Then  touched  with  pity  and  remorse, 
He  sorrowed  o'er  the  expiring  horse. 
'  I  little  thought  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slacked  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  gallant  steed ! 
Wo  worth  the  chase,  wo  worth  the  day, 
That  cost  thy  life,  my  gallant  gray !' 


QUALITIES  OF  A  WELL  REGULATED  MIND. 

I.  The  cultivation  of  a  habit  of  steady  and  con- 
tinuous attention ;  or  of  properly  dnecting  the 
mind  to  any  subject  which  is  before  it,  so  as  fully 
to  contemplate  its  elements  and  relations.  This  is 
necessary  for  the  due  exercise  of  every  other  men- 
tal process,  and  is  the  foundation  of  all  improve- 
ment of  character,  both  intellectual  and  moral.  We 
shall  afterward  have  occasion  to  remark,  how  often 
sophistical  opinions  and  various  distortions  of  cha- 
racter may  be  traced  to  errors  in  this  first  act  of  the 
mind,  or  to  a  misdirection  and  want  of  due  regula- 
tion of  the  attention.  There  is,  indeed,  every  rea- 
son to  believe,  that  the  diversities  in  the  power  of 
judging,  in  different  individuals,  are  much  less  than 
we  are  apt  to  imagine  :  and  that  the  remarkable  dif- 
ferences observed  in  the  act  of  judging  are  rather  to 


THE  PREMIUM.  209 

be  ascribed  to  the  manner  in  which  the  mind  is  pre- 
viously directed  to  the  facts  on  which  the  judgment 
is  afterwards  to  be  exercised.  It  is  related  of  Sir 
Isaac  Newton,  that,  when  he  was  questioned  respect- 
ing the  mental  qualities  which  form.ed  the  pecu- 
liarity of  his  character,  he  referred  it  entirely  to  the 
power  which  he  had  acquired  of  coniinuous  atten- 
tion. 

II.  Nearly  connected  with  the  former,  and  of 
equal  importance,  is  a  careful  regulation  and  con- 
trol of  the  succession  of  our  thoughts.  This  re- 
markable faculty  is  very  much  under  the  influence 
of  cultivation ;  and  on  the  power  so  acquired  de- 
pends the  important  habit  of  regular  and  connect- 
ed thinking.  It  is  primarily  a  voluntary  act ;  and 
in  the  exercise  of  it  in  different  mdividuals  there 
are  the  most  remarkable  differences.  Iir  some,  the 
thoughts  are  allowed  to  wander  at  large  without  any 
regulation,  or  are  devoted  only  to  frivolous  and  tran- 
sient objects  ;  while  others  habitually  exercise  over 
them  a  stern  control,  directing  them  to  subjects  of 
real  importance,  and  prosecuting  these  in  a  regular 
and  connected  manner.  This  important  habit  gains 
strength  by  exercise  ;  and  nothing,  certainly,  has  a 
greater  influence  in  giving  tone  and  consistency  to 
the  whole  character.  It  may  not,  indeed,  be  going 
too  far,  to  assert,  that  our  condition,  in  the  scale 
both  of  moral  and  intellectual  beings,  is  in  a  great 
measure  "determined  by  the  control  which  we  have 
acquired  over  the  succession  of  our  thoughts,  and 
by  the  subjects  on  which  they  are  habitually  exer- 
cised. 

III.  The  cultivation  of  an  active,  inquiring  state 
of  mind,  which  seeks  for  information  from  every 
source  that  comes  within  its  reach,  whether  in  read- 
ing, conversation,  or  personal  observation.     With 

O 


210  THE  PREMirjr. 

this  state  of  mental  activity  ought  to  be  closely  con- 
nected attention  to  the  anthenticity  of  facts  so  re- 
ceived ;  avoiding  the  two  extremes  of  credulity  and 
scepticism. 

IV.  The  habit  of  correct  association  ;  that  is, 
connecting  facts  in  the  mind  according  to  their  true 
relations,  and  to  the  manner  in  which  they  tend  to 
illustrate  each  other.  This,  as  we  have  formerly 
seen,  is  one  of  the  principal  means  of  improving  the 
memory ;  particularly  of  the  kind  of  memory  which 
is  an  essential  quality  of  a  cultivated  mind ;  namely, 
that  which  is  founded,  not  upon  incidental  connec- 
tions, but  on  true  and  important  relations  Nearly 
allied  to  this,  is  the  habit  of  reflection,  or  of  tracing 
carefully  the  relations  of  facts,  and  the  conclusions 
and  principles  which  arise  out  of  them.  It  is  in 
this  manner,  as  was  formerly  mentioned,  that  the 
philosophical  mind  often  traces  remarkable  relations, 
and  deduces  important  conclusions  ;  while  to  the 
common  understanding  the  facts  appear  to  be  very 
remote  or  entirely  unconnected. 

V.  A  careful  selection  of  the  subjects  to  which 
the  mind  ought  to  be  directed.  These  are,  in  some 
respects,  different  in  different  persons,  according  to 
their  situations  in  life ;  but  there  are  certain  objects 
of  attention  which  are  peculiarly  adapted  to  each 
individual,  and  there  are  some  which  are  equally 
interesting  to  all.  In  regard  to  the  latter,  an  ap 
propriate  degree  of  attention  is  the  part  of  every 
wise  man ;  in  regard  to  the  former,  a  proper  selec- 
tion is  the  foundation  of  excellence.  One  indi 
vidual  may  waste  his  powers  in  that  desultory  ap- 
pUcation  of  them  which  leads  to  an  imperfect  ac- 
quaintance with  a  variety  of  subjects  ;  while  another 
allows  his  Ufe  to  steal  over  him  in  listless  inactivity, 
or  application  to  trifling   pursuits.     It  is   equally 


THr,  PREMIUM.  211 

naelancholy  to  see  high  powers  devoted  to  unworthy 
objects  ;  such  as  the  contests  of  party  on  matters  in- 
volving no  important  principle,  or  the  subtleties  of 
sophistical  controversy.  For  rising  to  eminence  in 
any  intellectual  pursuit,  there  is  not  a  rule. of  more 
essential  importance  than  that  of  doing  one  thing 
at  a  time  ;  avoiding  distracting  and  desultory  occu- 
pations; and  keeping  a  leading  object  habitually 
before  the  mind,  as  one  in  which  it  can  at  all  times 
find  an  interesting  resource  when  necessary'  avoca- 
tions allow  the  thoughts  to  recur  to  it.  A  subject 
which  is  cultivated  in  this  manner,  not  by  regular 
periods  of  study  merely,  but  as  an  habitual  object 
of  thought,  rises  up  and  expands  before  the  mind 
in  a  manner  which  is  altogether  astonishing.  If 
along  with  this  habit  there  be  cultivated  the  prac- 
tice of  constantly  writing  such  views  as  arise,  we 
perhaps  describe  that  state  of  mental  discipline  by 
which  talents  of  a  very  moderate  order  may  be  ap- 
plied in  a  conspicuous  and  useful  manner  to  any 
subject  to  which  they  are  devoted.  Such  writmg 
need  not  be  made  at  first  with  any  great  attention 
to  method,  but  merely  put  aside  for  future  conside- 
ration; and  in  this  manner  the  ditferent  departments 
of  a  subject  will  develope  and  arrange  tbe^nselves 
as  they  advance  in  a  manner  equally  pleasing  and 
wonderful. 

VI.  A  due  regulation  and  proper  control  of  the 
imagination ;  that  is,  restricting  its  range  to  objects 
which  harmonize  with  truth,  and  are  adapted  to  the 
real  state  of  things  with  which  the  individual  is  or 
may  be  connected.  We  have  seen  how  much  the 
character  is  influenced  by  this  exercise  of  the  mind  ; 
that  it  may  be  turned  to  purposes  of  the  greatest 
moment,  both  in  the  pursuits  of  science  and  in  the 
cultivation  of  benevolence   and  virtue  ;    but  that, 


212  THE  PKEXIVX- 

on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  so  employed  as  to  de- 
base both  the  moral  and  intellectual  character. 

VII.  The  cultivation  of  calm  and  correct  judg- 
ment— applicable  alike  to  the  formation  of  opinions 
and  the  regulation  of  conduct.  This  is  founded, 
as  we  have  seen,  upon  the  habit  of  directing  the 
attention  distinctly  and  steadily  to  all  the  facts  and 
considerations  bearing  upon  a  subject ;  and  it  con- 
sists in  contemplating  them  in  their  true  relations, 
and  assigning  to  each  the  degree  of  importance  of 
which  it  is  worthy.  This  mental  habit  tends  to 
guard  us  against  forming  conclusions,  either  with 
listless  inattention  to  the  views  by  which  we  ought 
to  be  influenced, — or  with  attention  directed  to  some 
of  those,  while  we  neglect  others  of  equal  or  greater 
importance.  It  is,  therefore,  opposed  to  the  influence 
of  prejudice  and  passion, — to  the  formation  of  so- 
phistical opmions — to  party  spirit, — and  to  every 
propensity  which  leads  to  the  adoption  of  principles 
on  any  other  ground  than  calm  and  candid  exami- 
nation, guided  by  sincere  desire  to  discover  the 
truth.  abehcrombie. 


TO  AN  INFANT. 

Ah,  cease  thy  tears  and  sobs,  my  little  life  ! 
I  did  but  snatch  away  the  unclasped  knife. 
Some  safer  toy  will  soon  arrest  thine  eye, 
And  to  quick  laughter  change  this  pee-vish  cry. 
Poor  stumbler  on  the  rocky  coast  of  wo, 
Tutored  by  pain  each  source  of  pain  to  know  I 
Alike  the  foodful  fruit  and  scorching  fire 
Awake  thy  eager  grasp  and  young  desire ; 
Alike  the  good,  the  ill  offend  thy  sight, 
And  rouse  the  stormy  sense  of  shrill  affright ! 


THE  PREMIUM.  213 

Untaught,  yet  wise,  'mid  all  thy  brief  alanns 
Thou  closely  cUngest  to  thy  mother's  arms,  • 

Nestling  thy  little  face  in  that  fond  breast 
Whose  anxious  heavings  lull  thee  to  thy  rest ! 
Man's  breathing  miniature  !  thou  mak'st  me  sigh~ 
A  babe  art  thou,  and  such  a  thing  am  I ! 
To  anger  rapid,  and  as  soon  appeased — 
For  trifles  mourning,  and  by  trifles  pleased — 
Break  friendship's  mirror  with  a  peevish  blow, 
Yet  snatch  what  coals  of  fire  on  pleasure's  altar  glow ! 
O  thou  that  rearest,  with  celestial  aim. 
The  future  seraph  in  my  mortal  frame, 
Thrice  holy  faith !  whatever  thorns  I  meet. 
As  on  I  totter  with  unpractised  feet, 
Still  let  me  stretch  my  arms  and  cling  to  thee, 
Meek  nurse  of  souls  through  their  long  infancy 

C01EB.IDGE. 


PARALLEL  BETWEEN  LEIBNITZ  AND  NEWTON. 

For  the  variety  of  his  genius,  and  the  extent  of 
his  research,  Leibnitz  is,  perhaps,  altogether  un- 
rivalled. A  lawyer,  a  historian,  an  antiquary,  a 
poet,  and  a  philologist, — a  mathematician,  a  meta- 
physician, a  theologian,  and,  I  will  add,  a  geologist, 
— he  has  in  all  these  characters  produced  works  of 
great  merit,  and,  in  some  of  them,  of  the  highest 
excellence.  It  is  rare  that  original  genius  has  so  lit- 
tle of  a  pecuUar  direction,  or  is  disposed  to  scatter  its 
eflforts  over  so  wide  a  field.  Though  a  man  of  great 
inventive  powers,  he  occupied  much  of  his  time  in 
works  of  mere  labour  and  erudition,  where  there 
was  nothing  to  invent,  and  not  much  of  importance 
to  discover. 

Newton  did  not  aim  at  so  wide  a  range.    Fortu- 


814  THX   PRE>ai-M. 

nately  for  liimself  anJ  lor  the  world,  his  genius  was 
iliore  determined  to  a  particular  point,  and  its  effects 
were  more  concentrated.  Their  direction  was  to 
the  accurate  sciences,  and  they  soon  proved  equally 
inventive  in  the  pure  and  the  niixcd  mathematics. 
Newton  knew  how  to  transfer  the  truths  of  abstract 
science  to  the  study  of  things  actually  existing,  and 
by  returning  in  the  opposite  direction,  to  enrich 
the  former  by  ideas  derived  from  the  latter.  In  ex- 
perimental and  inductive  investigation,  he  was  as 
great  as  in  the  pure  mathematics,  and  his  discoveries 
were  as  distinguished  in  the  one  as  in  the  other. 
In  this  double  claim  to  renown,  Xewton  stands  yet 
tmrivalled ;  and  though,  in  the  pure  mathematics, 
equals  may.  perhaps,  be  found,  no  one.  I  believe, 
will  come  forward  as  his  rival  both  in  that  science 
and  in  the  philosophy  of  nature. 

His  caution  in  adopting  general  principles ;  hi» 
dislike  to  what  was  vague  or  cbscm^  ;  his  rejection 
of  all  theories  from  which  precise  conclusions  can- 
not be  deduced;  and  his  readiness  to  relinquish 
those  that  depart  in  any  degree  from  the  truth,  are 
throughout,  the  characters  of  his  philosophy,  and 
distinguish  it  very  essentially  from  the  philosophy 
of  Leibnitz.  The  characters  now  enumerated  are 
most  of  them  negative,  but  without  the  principles 
on  which  they  are  founded,  invention  can  hardly  be 
kept  in  the  right  course.  The  German  philosopher 
was  not  furnished  with  them  in  the  same  degree  as 
the  Enghsh,  and  hence  his  great  talents  have  run 
very  frequently  to  waste. 

It  may  be  doubted,  also,  whether  Leibnitz's  great 
metaphysical  acuteness  did  not  sometimes  mislead 
him  in  the  study  of  nature,  by  inclining  him  to 
those  reasonings  which  proceed,  or  affect  to  proceed 
continually  from  the  cause  to  the  effect.     The  at« 


THE  PRE3Iir?.T.  215 

tributes  of  the  Deity  were  the  axioms  of  his  philo- 
sophy ;  and  he  did  not  reflect  that  this  foundation, 
excellent  in  itself,  lies  much  too  deep  for  a  struc- 
ture that  is  to  be  raised  by  so  feeble  an  architect  as 
man ;  or  that  an  argument,  which  sets  out  with  the 
most  profound  respect  to  the  Supreme  Being, 
usually  terminates  in  the  most  unwarrantable  pre- 
sumption. His  reasoning  from  the  first  causes  are 
always  ingenious ;  but  nothing  can  prevent  the 
substitution  of  such  causes  for  those  that  are  physi- 
cal and  efficient,  from  being  one  of  the  worst  and 
most  fatal  errors  in  philosophy. 

As  an  interpreter  of  nature,  therefore,  Leibnitz 
stands  in  no  comparison  with  Newton.  As  to  who 
benefited  human  knowledge  most,  no  question  can 
arise  ;  and  if  genius  is  to  be  weighed  in  this  balance, 
it  is  evident  which  scale  must  preponderate.  Ex- 
cept in  the  pure  mathematics,  Leibnitz,  with  all  his 
talents,  made  no  material  or  permanent  addition  to 
the  sciences.  Newton,  to  equal  inventions  in  mathe- 
matics, added  the  gi-eatest  discoveries  in  the  philo- 
sophy of  nature ;  and,  in  passing  through  his 
hands,  mechanics,  optics,  and  astronomy  were  not 
merely  improved,  but  renovated.  No  one  ever  left 
knowledge  in  a  state  so  dilTerent  from  that  in  which 
he  found  it.  Men  were  instructed  not  only  in  new 
truths,  but  in  new  methods  of  discovering  truths. 
They  were  made  acquainted  with  the  great  princi- 
ple which  connects  together  the  most  distant  re- 
gions of  space,  as  well  as  the  most  remote  periods 
of  duration ;  and  which  was  to  lead  to  future  dis» 
coveries,  far  beyond  what  the  wisest  or  most  san- 
guine could  anticipate.  playfaib. 


216  TUE  PREMIUM. 

THE  LOST  DARLING. 
She  was  my  idol.     Night  and  day  to  scan 
The  fine  expansion  of  her  form,  and  mark 
The  unfolding  mind  like  vernal  rose-buds  start 
To  sudden  beauty,  was  my  chief  deUght. 
To  find  her  fairy  footsteps  following  me, — 
Her  hand  upon  my  garments, — or  her  lip 
Long  seal'd  to  mine, — and  in  the  watch  of  night 
The  quiet  breath  of  innocence  to  feel 
Soft  on  my  cheek, — was  such  a  full  content 
Of  happiness,  as  none  but  mothers  know. 
Her  voice  was  like  some  tiny  harp  that  yields 
To  the  sUght-finger'd  breeze, — and  as  it  held 
Long  converse  wiih  her  doll,  or  kindly  soothed 
Her  moaning  kitten,  or  with  patient  care 
Conn'd  o'er  the  alphabet, — ^but  most  of  all 
Its  tender  cadence  in  her  evening  prayer, 
Thrill'd  on  the  ear  like  some  ethereal  tone, 
Heard  in  sweet  dreams. — 

— But  now  I  sit  alone, 
Musing  of  her, — and  dew  with  mournful  tears 
The  little  robes  that  once  with  woman's  pride 
I  wrought,  as  if  there  were  a  need  to  deck 
What  God  had  made  so  beautiful.     I  start, — 
Half  fancying  from  her  empty  crib  there  comes 
A  restless  sound, — and  breathe  the  accustom'd  word 
*  Hush,  hush,  Louisa,  dearest.' — Then  I  weep, 
As  though  it  were  a  sin  to  speak  to  one 
Whose  home  is  with  the  angels. — 

— Gone  to  God ! 
And  yet  I  wish  I  had  not  seen  the  pang 
That  vtnrung  her  features,  nor  the  ghastly  white 
Settling  around  her  lips.     I  would  that  Heaven 
Had  taken  its  own  like  some  transplanted  flower, 
Blooming  in  allits  freshness. — 


THE  PREMIUM.  217 

— Gone  to  God  ! 
Be  still,  my  heart ! — what  could  a  mother's  prayer, 
In  all  its  wildest  ecstasy  of  hope, 
Ask  for  its  darling  like  the  bliss  of  heaven  ? 

MRS.  SIGOUaXET. 


IMPROVISATORS 


About  sixty  years  ago  Benjamin  West,  a  na- 
tive of  America,  went  to  Rome  to  study  the  art  of 
painting.  His  biographer,  Mr.  Gait,  relates  the 
manner  in  which  this  celebrated  artist  was  once 
entertained  by  an  improvisatore,  one  of  the  extem- 
poraneous Italian  poets. 

One  night,  soon  after  his  arrival  in  Rome,  Mr.  Ga- 
vin Hamilton,  the  painter  to  whom  he  had  been  in- 
troduced by  Mr.  Robinson,  took  him  to  a  coffee- 
house, the  usual  resort  of  the  British  travellers. 
While  they  were  sitting  at  one  of  the  tables,  a  vene- 
rable old  man,  with  a  guitar  suspended  from  his 
shoulder,  entered  the  room,  and  coming  immediately 
to  their  table,  Mr.  Hamilton  addressed  him  by  the 
name  of  Homer.  He  was  the  most  celebrated  im- 
provisatore in  all  Italy,  and  the  richness  of  expression, 
and  nobleness  of  conception  which  he  displayed  in 
his  effusions,  had  obtained  for  him  that  distinguish- 
ed name. 

Those  who  once  heard  his  poetry,  never  ceased 
to  lament  that  it  was  lost  in  the  same  moment, 
affirming  that  it  often  was  so  regular  and  dignified, 
as  to  equal  the  finest  compositions  of  Tasso  and 
Ariosto.  It  will,  perhaps,  afford  some  gratification 
to  the  admirers  of  native  genius  to  learn,  that  this 
old  man,  though  led  by  the  fine  frenzy  of  his 
imagination  to  prefer  a  wild  and  wandering  life  to 


218  THE  PBEMIU3f. 

the  offer  of  a  settled  independence,  which  had  been 
made  him  in  his  youth,  enjoyed  in  his  old  age,  by 
the  liberality  of  several  Englishmen,  who  had  raised 
a  subscription  for  the  purpose,  a  small  pension,  suffi- 
cient to  keep  him  comfortable,  in  his  own  way,  when 
he  became  incapable  of  amusing  the  public. 

After  some  conversation,  Homer  requested  Mr. 
Hamilton  to  give  him  a  subject  for  a  poem.  In  the 
meantime,  a  number  of  Italians  had  gathered  round 
them  to  look  at  West,  who  they  had  heard  was  an 
American,  and  whom,  hke  cardinal  Albani,*  they 
imagined  to  be  an  Indian.  Some  of  them,  on  hear- 
ing Homer's  request,  observed,  that  he  had  exhaust- 
ed his  vein,  and  had  already  said  and  sung  every 
subject  over  and  over.  Mr.  Hamilton,  however,  re- 
marked that  he  thought  he  could  propose  something 
new  to  the  bard,  and  pointing  to  Mr.  West,  said, 
that  he  was  an  American  come  to  study  the  fine  arts 
in  Rome ;  and  that  such  an  event  furnished  a  new 
and  magnificent  theme. 

Homer  took  possession  of  the  thought  with  the 
ardour  of  inspiration.  He  immediately  unslung  his 
guitar,  and  began  to  draw  his  fingers  rapidly  over 
the  strings,  swinging  his  body  from  side  to  side, 
and  striking  fine  and  impressive  chords.  When  he 
had  thus  brought  his  motions  and  his  feelings  into 
unison  with  the  instrument,  he  began  an  extempo- 
raneous ode  in  a  maiiner  so  dignified,  so  pathetic, 
and  so  enthusiastic,  that  Mr.  West  was  scarcely 
less  interested  by  his  appearance  than  those  who 
enjoyed  the  subject  and  melody  of  his  numbers. 

He  sung  the  darkness  which  for  so  many  ages 
veiled  America  from  the  eyes  of  science.     He  do- 


*  A  Spanish  cardinal,  who  presumed  that  American  sig- 
lified  Indian. 


THE  PIlEMIUir.  219 

scribed  the  fulness  of  time,  when  the  purposes  for 
which  it  had  been  raised  from  the  deep  were  to  be 
raanifested.  He  painted  the  seraph  of  knowledge 
descending  from  heaven,  and  directing  Columbus 
to  undertake  the  discovery  ;  and  he  related  the  lead- 
ing incidents  of  the  voyage.  He  invoked  the  fancy 
of  the  auditors  to  contemplate  the  wild  magnificence 
of  mountain,  lake,  and  wood,  in  the  new  world ; 
and  he  raised,  as  it  were,  in  vivid  perspective,  the 
Indians  in  the  chase,  and  at  their  horrible  sacrifices. 
'  But,'  he  continued,  '  the  beneficent  spirit  of  im- 
provement is  ever  on  the  wing,  and  like  the  ray 
firom  the  throne  of  God,  it  has  descended  on  this 
youth,  and  the  hope  which  ushered  in  its  new  mira- 
cle, like  the  star  that  gvdded  the  magi  to  Bethlehem, 
has  led  him  to  Rome. 

*  Methinks  I  behold  in  him  an  instrument  chosen 
by  Heaven,  to  raise  in  America  the  taste  for  those 
arts  which  elevate  the  nature  of  man — an  assurance 
that  his  country  will  afford  a  refuge  to  science  and 
knowledge,  when  in  the  old  age  of  Europe  they 
shall  have  forsaken  her  shores.  But  all  things  of 
heavenly  origin,  like  the  glorious  sun,  move  west- 
ward; and  truth  and  art  have  their  periods  of  shin- 
ing, and  of  night.  Rejoice  then,  0  venerable  Rome, 
in  thy  divine  destiny;  for  though  darkness  over- 
shadow thy  seats,  and  though  thy  mitred  head  must 
descend  into  the  dust,  as  deep  as  the  earth  that  now 
rovers  thy  ancient  helmet  and  imperial  diadem^  thy 
spirit,  immortal  and  undecayed,  already  reaches  to- 
wards a  new  world,  where,  like  the  soul  of  man  in 
paradise,  it  will  be  perfected  in  virtue  and  beauty 
more  and  more.' 

The  highest  efforts  of  the  greatest  actors,  even  of 
Garrick  himself  delivering  the  poetry  of  Shakspeare, 
never  produced  a  more  immediate   and  inspiring 


»»0  THK  PREXIUM. 

effect  than  this  rapid  burst  of  genius.  When  the 
applause  had  abated,  Mr.  West,  being  the  stranger, 
and  the  party  addressed,  according  to  the  common 
practice,  made  the  bard  a  present.  Mr.  Hamilton 
explained  the  subject  of  the  ode  :  though  with  the 
weakness  of  a  verbal  translation,  and  the  imperfec- 
tion of  an  indistinct  echo,  it  was  so  connected  with 
the  appearance  which  the  author  made  in  the  recital, 
that  the  incident  was  never  obliterated  from  Mr. 
West's  recollection.  anox. 


MIDNIGHT  AT  CORINTH. 

'Tis  midnight ;  on  the  mountains  brown 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down ; 
Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 
So  wildly,  spiritually  bright ; 
Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining. 
And  turned  to  earth  without  repining. 
Nor  wished  for  wings  to  flee  away. 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  1 
The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 
And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 
But  murmured  meekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pillowed  on  the  waves ; 
The  banners  drooped  along  their  staves, 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 
Save  where  the  steed  neighed  oft  and  shrill, 
And  echo  answered  from  the  hill. 


THE  FREJIIUM.  221 

And  the  v/ild  hum  of  that  wild  host 
Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 
As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 
In  midnight  called  to  wonted  prayer. 

BXKOir. 


TRUE  GREATNESS. 


"  The  greatness  of  the  warrior,"  is  poor  and  low 
compared  with  the  magnanimity  of  virtue.  It  va- 
nishes before  the  greatness  of  principle.  The  martyr 
to  humanity,  to  freedom,  or  religion ;  the  unshrink- 
ing adherent  of  despised  and  deserted  truth ;  who 
alone,  unsupported,  and  scorned,  with  no  crowd  to 
infuse  into  him  courage,  no  variety  of  objects  to 
draw  his  thoughts  from  himself,  no  opportunity  of 
effort  or  resistance  to  rouse  and  nourish  energy,  still 
yields  himself  calmly,  resolutely,  with  invincible 
philanthropy,  to  bear  prolonged  and  exquisite  suffer- 
ing, which  one  retracting  word  might  remove  ;  such 
a  man  is  as  superior  to  the  warrior,  as  the  tranquil 
and  boundless  heavens  above  us,  to  the  low  earth 
we  tread  beneath  our  feet. 

Great  generals  away  from  the  camp,  are  common- 
ly no  greater  men  that  the  mechanician  taken  from 
his  workshop.  In  conversation  they  are  often  dull. 
Works  of  profound  thinking  on  general  and  great 
topics  they  cannot  comprehend.  The  conqueror 
of  Napoleon,  the  hero  of  Waterloo,  undoubtedly 
possesses  great  military  talents ;  but  we  have  never 
heard  of  his  eloquence  in  the  senate,  or  of  his  sa- 
gacity in  the  cabinet ;  and  we  venture  to  say,  that 
he  will  leave  the  world,  without  adding  one  new 
thought  on  the  great  themes,  on  which  the  genius 
of  philosophy  and  legislature  has  meditated  for  ages. 
We  will  not  go  down  for  illustration  to  such  men  as 


232  THK    PHEMIU.V. 

Nelson,  a  man  great  on  the  deck,  but  debased  by 
gross  vices,  and  who  never  pretended  to  enlargement 
of  intellect.  To  institute  a  comparison  in  point  of 
talent  and  genius  between  such  men  and  MiUon, 
Bacon,  and  Shakspeare,  is  almost  an  insult  on  these 
illustrious  names. 

Who  can  think  of  these  truly  great  intelligences ; 
of  the  range  of  their  minds  through  heaven  and 
earth  ;  of  their  deep  intuition  into  the  soul ;  of  their 
new  and  glowing  combinations  of  thought ;  of  the 
energy  with  which  they  grasped  and  subjected  to 
their  main  purpose,  the  infinite  materials  of  illus- 
tration which  nature  and  life  afford,  who  can  think 
of  the  forms  of  transcendent  beauty  and  grandeur 
which  they  created,  or  which  were  rather  emana- 
tions of  their  own  minds ;  of  the  calm  wisdom  and 
fervid  impetuous  imagination  which  they  conjoined ; 
of  the  dominion  which  they  have  exerted  over  so 
many  generations,  and  which  time  only  extends  and 
makes  sure  ;  of  the  voice  of  power,  in  which,  though 
dead,  they  still  speak  to  nations,  and  awaken  intel- 
lect, sensibility,  and  genius  in  both  hemispheres ; 
who  can  think  of  such  men,  and  not  feel  the  im- 
mense inferiority  of  the  most  gifted  warrior,  whose 
elements  of  thought  are  physical  forces  and  physi- 
cal obstructions,  and  whose  employment  is  the  com- 
bination of  the  lowest  class  of  objects,  on  which  a 
powerful  mirid  can  be  employed.  cha>*xixg. 


THE  GRANDAME. 


Oy  the  green  hill  top. 
Hard  by  the  house  of  prayer,  a  modest  roof, 
And  not  distinguished  from  its  neighbour  bam. 
Save  by  a  slender  tapering  length  of  spire, 


THE    PREMirX.  223 

The  grandame  sleeps.     A  plain  stone  l)arely  tells 

The  name  and  date  to  the  chance  passenger. 

For  lowly  born  was  she,  and  long  had  ate, 

Well  earned,  the  bread  of  service  : — hers  was  else 

A  mounting  spirit,  one  that  entertained 

Scorn  of  base  action,  deed  dishonourable, 

Or  aught  unseemly.     I  remember  well 

Her  reverend  image  :  I  remember,  too, 

"With  what  a  zeal  she  served  her  master's  house 

And  how  the  prattling  tongue  of  garrulous  age 

Dehghted  to  recount  the  oft-told  tale 

Of  anecdote  domestic.     Wise  she  was, 

And  wondrous  skilled  in  genealogies, 

And  could,  in  apt  and  voluble  terms  discourse 

Of  births,  of  titles,  and  alliances  ; 

Of  marriages  and  intermarriages  ; 

Relationship  remote  or  near  of  kin  ; 

Of  friends  offended,  family  disgraced — 

Maiden  high-born,  but  wayward,  disobeying 

Parental  strict  injunction,  and,  regardless 

Of  unmixed  blood,  and  ancestry  remote. 

Stooping  to  wed  with  one  of  low  degree. 

But  these  are  not  thy  praises  ;  and  I  wrong 

Thy  honoured  memory,  recording  chiefly 

Things  hght  or  trivial.     Better  'twere  to  tell 

How,  with  a  nobler  zeal  and  warmer  love, 

She  served  her  heavenly  Master.     I  have  seen 

That  reverend  form  bent  down  with  age,  and  pain. 

And  rankling  malady.     Yet  not  for  this 

Ceased  she  to  praise  her  Maker,  or  withdrew 

Her  trust  in  him,  her  faith,  and  humble  hope — 

80  meekly  had  she  learned  to  bear  her  cross  ; 

For  she  had  studied  patience  in  the  school 

Of  Christ,  much  comfort  she  had  thence  derived, 

And  was  a  follower  of  the  Nazarene.          lamb. 


224  THE  PRKMIUM, 


AXCIENT  NATIOXS. 


If  we  go  back  to  any  of  the  nations  of  antiquity 
— to  those  which  surpassed  all  their  contemporaries 
as  much  as  did  Egypt  and  Babylon — what  notion 
does  history  warrant  us  in  forming  of  the  intellec- 
tual state  of  the  mass  of  the  people  ]  We  think  of 
them  as  growing  up  on  the  soil  veiy  much  as  do 
the  vegetables  around  them ;  with  no  fostering  care 
put  forth  to  encourage  and  guide  them ;  with  no 
streams  of  knowledge  winding  their  way  to  every 
hamlet,  gratifying  an  eager  curiosity,  and  furnishing 
nutriment  for  growing  minds  ;  with  no  eye  to  look 
out  on  the  widely-extended  and  varied  scenes  of  the 
world ;  and  no  public  spirit  to  feel  an  interest  in 
the  concerns  of  their  fellow  men.  They  grew  up 
on  the  spot,  obtained  a  hard-earned  subsistence  for 
a  few  years,  never  roused  from  their  stupidity,  but 
to  repel  an  invasion,  to  ravage  a  state,  or  to  build 
a  city — and  they  died  on  the  spot,  their  life  no  be- 
nefit to  the  world  of  men  around  them,  and  their 
death  no  loss. 

We  often  read  of  the  splendid  achievements  of 
ancient  ai-mies.  But  what  idea  are  we  warranted 
in  forming  of  the  multitudes  of  human  beings  con- 
gregated in  these  armies  1  They  were  brave,  but 
their  bravery  was  insensibility.  They  were  power- 
ful, but  their  power  was  mere  brute  force,  having 
not  many  more  marks  of  intelligence  in  it  than  were 
in  the  pbwer  of  their  battering  engines.  They  ac- 
complished the  will  of  a  more  thinking  leader,  but 
their  obedience  was  an  almost  instinctive  recogni 
tion  of  a  master.  Think  of  the  five  milUons  whom 
Xerxes  is  said  to  have  led  into  Greece, — five  mil- 
lions of  human  beings,  made  to  think  and  act,  and 
to  take  on  themselves  an  individual  responsibility, 


TEE  premii/m:.  225 

and  at  last  to  render  an  account  for  their  thoughts 
and  actions  !  But  how  many  minds  do  you  suppose 
there  were  in  this  moving  nation,  in  which  j^ou 
could  have  found  traces  of  intelligence  much  beyond 
common  animal  instinct  and  mere  contrivance  to 
exist]  The  proud  and  unhappy  monarch  looked 
over  this  vast  assemblage,  and,  with  a  sickening  and 
gloomy  sensibility,  wept  to  think  that  all  the  indi- 
viduals of  it  would .  be  dead  in  less  than  a  hundred 
years.  But  what  if  they  did  die  ]  What  effect 
could  their  death  have  upon  the  world  !  They  had 
done  nothing  for  it.  They  v/ere  capable  of  doing 
nothing  for  it.  Excepting  that  the  physical  strength 
of  the  empire  would  be  somewhat  diminished,  the 
world  V7ould  be  no  more  affected  by  their  death, 
than  by  the  felling  of  so  many  trees  in  the  forests 
of  Scythia.  They  might  have  gone  with  the  ar- 
mies of  locusts,  and  perished  on  the  shores  of  the 
Levant,  the  existence  and  the  movements  of  the 
one  as  well  as  the  other,  ha^^ng  been  Itnown  to 
the  world  only  by  tlie  desolations  that  marked  their 
progress.  e.  everett. 


TITUS  BEFORE  JERUSALEM. 
It  must  be  ! 


And  yet  it  moves  me,  Romans  !  it  confounds 
The  counsel  of  my  firm  philosophy. 
That  ruin's  merciless  ploughshare  must  pass  o'er. 
And  baxTcn  salt  be  sowed  on  yon  proud  city. 
As  on  our  olive-crowned  hill  we  stand, 
Where  Kedron  at  our  feet  its  scanty  waters 
Distils  from  stone  to  stone  with  gentle  motion, 
As  through  a  valley  sacred  to  sweet  peace, 
How  boldly  doth  it  front  us !  how  majestically ! 
P 


226  THE  PIlEMIUSf. 

Like  a  luxurious  vineyard,  the  hill  side 
Is  hung  with  marble  fabrics,  line  o'er  line, 
Terrace  o'er  terrace,  nearei:  still,  and  nearer 
To  the  blue  heavens. 

Here  bright  and  sumptuous  palaces, 
With  cool  and  verdant  gardens  interspers'd  ; 
Here  towers  of  war,  that  frown  in  massy  strength; 
While  over  all  hangs  the  rich  purple  eve, 
As  conscious  of  its  being  her  last  farewell 
Of  light  and  glory  to  that  faded  city. 
And,  as  our  clouds  of  battle  dust,  and  smoke 
Are  melted  into  air,  behold  the  temple, 
In  undisturb'd  and  lone  serenity, 
Finding  itself  a  solemn  sanctuary 
In  the  profound  of  heaven  ! 

It  stands  before  us 
A  mount  of  snow  fretted  with  golden  pinnacles ! 
The  very  sun,  as  though  he  worshipp'd  there, 
Lingers  upon  the  gilded  cedar  roofs  : 
And  down  the  long  and  branching  porticoes, 
On  every  flowing-sculptur'd  capital. 
Glitters  the  homage  of  his  parting  beams. 
By  Hercules  !   the  sight  might  almost  win 
The  ofiended  majesty  of  Rome  to  mercy. 


USES  OF  WATER. 

How  common,  and  yet  how  beautiful  and  how 
pure,  is  a  drop  of  water  !  See  it,  as  it  issues  from 
the  rock  to  supply  the  spring  and  the  stream  below. 
See  how  its  meanderings  through  the  plains,  and  its 
torrents  over  the  clifls,  add  to  the  richness  and  the 
beauty  of  the  landscape.  Look  into  a  factory  stand- 
ing by  a  waterfall,  in  which  every  drop  is  faitiiful 


TUE  PREMIUM.  22t 

to  perform  its  part,  and  hear  the  groaning  and  rust* 
ling  of  the  wheels,  the  clattering  of  shuttles,  and 
the  buzz  of  spindles,  which,  under  the  direction  of 
their /air  attendants,  are  supplying  myriads  of  fair 
purchasers  with  fabrics  from  the  cotton-plant,  the 
sheep,  and  the  silk-worm. 

Is  any  one  so  stupid  as  not  to  admire  the  splen- 
dour of  the  rainbow,  or  so  ignorant  as  not  to  know 
that  it  is  produced  by  drops  of  water,  as  they  break 
away  from  the  clouds  which  had  confined  them, 
and  are  making  a  quick  visit  to  our  earth  to  renew 
its  verdure  and  increase  its  animation  1  How  use- 
ful is  the  gentle  dew,  in  its  nightly  visits,  to  allay 
the  scorching  heat  of  a  summer's  sun  !  And  the 
autumn's  frost,  how  beautifully  it  bedecks  the  trees, 
the  shrubs  and  the  grass  ;  though  it  strips  them  of 
their  summer's  verdure,  and  warns  them  that  they 
must  soon  receive  the  butfetings  of  the  winter's 
tempest !  This  is  but  water,  which  has  given  up 
its  transparency  for  its  beautiful  whiteness  and  its 
elegant  crystals.  The  snow,  too — what  is  that  but 
these  same  pure  drops  thrown  into  crystals  by  win- 
ter's icy  hand  1  and  does  not  the  first  summer's  sun 
return  them  to  the  same  limpid  drops  1 

The  majestic  river,  and  the  boundless  ocean, 
what  are  they  1  Are  they  not  made  of  drops  of 
water  1  How  the  river  steadily  pursues  its  course 
from  the  mountain's  top,  down  the  declivity,  over 
the  cliff,  and  through  the  plain,  taking  with  it  every 
thing  in  its  course  !  How  many  mighty  ships  does 
the  ocean  float  upon  its  bosom  !  How  many  fishes 
sport  in  its  waters !  How  does  it  form  a  lodging- 
place  for  the  Amazon,  the  Mississippi,  the  Danube, 
the  Rhine,  the  Ganges,  the  Lena,  and  the  Hoang 
Ho! 

How  piercing  are  these  pure  limpid  drops !  How 


S28  THE  PttEMIUSr. 

do  they  find  their  way  into  the  depths  of  the  earth, 
and  even  the  solid  rock  ?  How  many  thousand 
streams,  hidden  from  our  view  by  mountain  masses, 
are  steadily  pursuing  their  courses,  deep  from  the 
surface  which  forms  our  standing-place  for  a  few 
short  days  !  In  the  air,  too,  how  it  ditfuses  itself ! 
Where  can  a  particle  of  air  be  found  which  does 
not  contain  an  atom  of  water  ] 

How  much  would  a  famishing  man  give  for  a 
few  of  these  pure,  limpid  drops  of  water !  And 
where  do  we  use  it  in  our  daily  sustenance  1  or  ra- 
ther, where  do  we  not  use  it  1  Which  portion  of 
the  food  that  we  have  taken  during  our  lives  did 
not  contain  it?  What  part  of  our  body,  which 
limb,  which  organ,  is  not  moistened  with  this  same 
faithful  servant  ]  How  is  our  blood,  that  free  li- 
quid, to  circtlate  through  our  veins  without  it  ] 

How  gladly  does  the  faithful  horse,  or  the  patient 
ox,  in  his  toilsome  journey,  arrive  at  the  water's 
brink !  And  the  faithful  dog,  patiently  following 
his  master's  track — how  eagerly  does  he  lap  the 
water  from  the  clear  fountain  he  meets  in  his  way  ! 

The  feathered  tribe,  also— how  far  and  how  quick 
their  flight,  that  they  may  exchange  the  northern 
ice  for  the  same  common  comfort  rendered  liquid 
and  limpid  by  a  southern  sun  ! 

Whose  heart  ought  not  to  overflow  with  grati- 
tude to  the  abundant  Giver  of  this  pure  liquid, 
which  his  o\\ti  hand  has  deposited  in  the  deep,  and 
diffused  through  the  floating  air  and  the  solid  earth  ? 
Is  it  the  farmer,  whose  fields,  by  the  gentle  dew  and 
the  abundant  rain,  bring  forth  fatness  1  Is  it  the 
mechanic,  whose  saw,  lathe,  spindle  and  shuttle  are 
moved  by  this  faithful  servant  1  Is  it  the  merchant, 
on  his  return  from  the  noise  and  the  perplexities 
of  business,  to  the  table  of  his  family,  richly  sup- 


THE  PREMIUM.  229 

plied  with  the  varieties  and  the  luxuries  of  the  four 
quarters  of  the  globe,  produced  by  the  abundant 
rain,  and  transported  across  the  mighty  but  yielding 
ocean  1  Is  it  the  physician,  on  his  administering  to 
his  patient  some  gentle  beverage,  or  a  more  active 
healer  of  the  disease  which  threatens  ]  Is  it  the 
clergyman,  whose  profession  it  is  to  make  others 
feel — and  that  by  feeling  himself  that  the  slightest 
favour  and  the  richest  blessing  are  from  the  same 
source,  and  from  the  same  abundant  and  constant 
Giver  1  Who,  that  still  has  a  glass  of  water  and  a 
crumb  of  bread,  is  not  ungrateful  to  complain  1 

AXOK. 


THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Child  of  the  sun !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lov'st  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  paradise  unfold, 
Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold, 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening  sky, 
Expand  and  shut  in  silent  ecstasy. 

Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 

On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb,  and  slept; 
And  such  is  man ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

BOGEBS. 


NIGHT. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest 

How  sweet,  when  labours  close, 

To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 
The  curtain  of  repose  : 


230 


THE  PHEMIUM. 


Stretch  the  tired  limbs  and  lay  the  head 
Upon  our  own  delightful  bed  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams  ; 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 
When  truth  that  is,  and  truth  that  seems^ 

Blend  in  fantastic  strife  ; 
Ah  !  visions  less  beguiUng  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil ; 

To  plough  the  classic  field, 
Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 
Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught. 
That  poets  sang,  or  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep  ; 

To  wet  with  imseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  memory  where  sleep 

The  joys  of  other  years ; 
Hopes  that  were  Angels  in  their  birth, 
But  perish'd  young,  like  things  of  earth ! 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch  ; 

On  the  ocean's  dark  expanse, 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 

The  full  moon's  earliest  glance, 
That  brings  into  the  home-sick  mind. 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care  ; 

Brooding  on  hours  mispent, 
To  see  the  spectre  of  despair 

Come  to  ovur  lonely  tent ; 
Like  Brutus  'midst  his  slumbering  host> 
Startled  by  Caesar's  stalwart  ghost. 


THE  PRExru:\r.  231 

JJlght  is  the  lirae  to  muse  ; 

Then  from  the  eye  the  soul 
Takes  flight,  and  with  expanding  views 

Beyond  the  starry  pole, 
Describes  athwart  the  abyss  of  night 
The  dawn  of  uncreated  Ught 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray ; 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 
To  desert  mountains  far  away, 

So  will  his  followers  do  ; 
Steal  from  their  throng  to  haunts  untrod, 
And  hold  communion  there  with  God. 

Night  is  the  time  for  death : 

When  all  around  is  peace. 
Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath, 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease  ; 
Think  of  Heaven's  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 
To  parting  friends ; — such  death  be  mine  ! 

MONTGOMERT. 


PURSUITS  OF  COWPER. 
[Described  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  King.] 

You  are  perfectly  secure  from  all  danger  of  being 
overwhelmed  with  presents  from  me.  It  is  not 
much  that  a  poet  can  possibly  have  it  in  his  power 
to  give.  When  he  has  presented  his  own  works, 
he  may  be  supposed  to  have  exhausted  all  means 
of  donation.  They  are  his  only  superfluity.  There 
was  a  time — ^but  that  time  was  before  I  commenced 
writer  for  the  press — when  I  amused  myself  in  a 
way  somewhat  similar  to  yours  ;  allowing,  I  mean, 
for  the  difference  between  masculine  and  female 
operations.     The  scissors  and  the  needle  are  your 


232  THK    PREMIUM. 

chief  implements ;  mine  were  the  chisel  and  the 
saw.  In  those  days,  you  might  have  been  in  some 
danger  of  too  plentiful  a  return  for  your  favours. 
Tables,  such  as  they  were,  and  joint-stools,  such  as 
never  were,  might  have  travelled  to  Perton-hall  in 
most  inconvenient  abundance.  But  I  have  long  since 
discontinued  this  practice,  and  many  others  which 
I  found  it  necessary  to  adopt,  that  I  might  escape 
the  wdrst  of  all  e\nls,  both  in  itself  and  in  its  conse- 
quences— an  idle  life.  Many  arts  I  have  exercised 
with  this  view,  for  which  nature  never  designed 
me ;  though  among  them  were  some  in  which  I  ar- 
rived at  considerable  proficiency,  by  mere  dint  of 
the  most  heroic  perseverance.  There  is  not  a 
'squire  in  all  this  country  who  can  boast  of  having 
made  better  squirrel  houses,  hutches  for  rabbits,  or 
bird-cages,  than  myself;  and  in  the  article  of  cab- 
bage-nets I  had  no  superior.  I  even  had  the  hardi- 
ness to  take  in  hand  the  pencil,  and  studied  a  whole 
year  the  art  of  drawing.  Many  figures  were  the 
fruit  of  my  labours,  which  had,  at  least,  the  merit 
of  being  unparalleled  by  any  production  either  of 
art  or  nature.  But  before  the  year  was  ended,  I 
had  occasion  to  wonder  at  the  progress  tliat  may  be 
made,  in  despite  of  natural  deficiency,  by  dint  alone 
of  practice  ;  for  I  actually  produced  three  landscapes, 
which  a  lady  thought  worthy  to  be  framed  and 
glazed.  I  then  judged  it  high  time  to  exchange  this 
occupation  for  another,  lest,  by  any  subsequent  pro- 
ductions of  inferior  merit,  I  should  forfeit  the  ho- 
nour I  had  so  fortunately  acquired.  But  gardening 
was,  of  all  employments,  that  in  which  I  succeeded 
best ;  though,  even  in  this,  I  did  not  suddenly  at- 
tain perfection.  I  began  \vith  lettuces  and  cauli- 
flowers :  firom  them  I  proceeded  to  cucumbers ;  next 
to  melons.    I  then  purchased  an  orange  tree,  to 


THE    PKEJIIOr.  233 

which,  in  due  time,  I  added  two  or  three  myrtles, 
These  served  me,  day  and  night,  with  employment 
during  a  whole  severe  winter.  To  defend  them 
from  the  frost,  in  a  situation  that  exposed  them  to 
its  severity,  cost  me  much  ingenuity  and  much 
attendance.  I  contrived  to  give  them  a  fireheat; 
and  have  waded  night  after  night,  through  the 
Know,  with  the  bellows  under  my  arm,  just  be- 
fore going  to  bed,  to  give  the "  latest  possible  puff 
to  the  embers,  lest  the  frost  should  seize  them  be- 
fore morning.  Very  minute  beginnings  have  some- 
times important  consequences.  From  nursing  two 
or  three  little  evergreens,  I  became  ambitious  of  a 
green-house,  and  accordingly  built  one ;  which,  verse 
excepted,  afforded  me  amusement  for  a  longer  time 
than  any  expedient  of  all  the  many  to  which  I 
have  fled  for  refuge  from  the  misery  of  ha\-ing  no- 
thing to  do.  When  I  left  Olney  for  Weston,  I 
could  no  longer  have  a  green-house  of  my  own  ; 
but  in  a  neighbour's  garden  I  find  a  better,  of  which 
the  sole  management  is  consigned  to  me. 


THE  ENGLISH  CHURCH  SERVICE. 

Nor  would  I  leave  unsung 
The  lofty  ritual  of  our  sister  land : 
In  vestment  white,  the  minister  of  God 
Opens  the  book,  and  reverentially 
The  stated  portion  reads.     A  pause  ensues. 
The  organ  breathes  its  distant  thunder  ;  notes 
Then  swell  into  a  diapason  full  ;* 
The  people,  rising,  sing,  with  harp,  with  harp 
And  voice  of  psalms  ;  harmoniously  attuned, 
The  various  voices  blend  ;  the  long-drawn  aisles, 

*  Diapason,  a  musical  term. 


234  THE  PREMIUM. 

At  every  close,  the  lingering  strain  prolong. 
And  now  the  tubes  a  mellowed  stop  controls ; 
In  softer  harmony  the  people  join, 
While  liquid  whispers  from  yon  orphan  band 
Recall  the  soul  from  adoration's  trance, 
And  fill  the  eye  with  pity's  gentle  tears. 
Again  the  organ  peal,  loud  rolling,  meets 
The  hallelujahs  of  the  choir.     Sublime,  - 

A  thousand  notes  symphoniously  ascend,  i 

As  if  the  whole  were  one,  suspended  high 
In  air,  soaring  heavenward:  afar  they  float, 
Wafting  glad  tidings  to  the  sick  man's  couch : 
Raised  on  his  arm,  he  lists  the  cadence  close, 
Yet  tliinks  he  hears  it  still ;  his  heart  is  cheered  ; 
He  smiles  on  death ;  but,  ah  !  a  wish  will  rise — 
"  Would  I  were  now  beneath  that  echoing  roof! 
No  lukewarm  accents  from  my  lips  should  flow, 
My  heart  would  sing :  and,  many  a  Sabbath-day, 
My  steps  should  thither  turn  ;  or,  wandering  far 
In  solitary  paths,  where  wild  flowers  blow, 
There  would  I  bless  His  name  who  led  me  forth 
From  death's  dark  vale,  to  walk  amid  these  sweets ; 
Who  gives  the  bloom  of  health  once  more  to  glow 
Upon  this  cheek,  and  lights  this  languid  eye." 

GRAHAME. 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  RED  SEA. 

'Mid  the  light  spray  their  snorting  camels  stood, 
Nor  bath'd  a  fetlock  in  the  nauseous  flood — 
He  comes — their  leader  comes  ! — the  man  of  God 
O'er  the  wide  waters  lifts  his  mighty  rod, 
And  onward  treads — The  circling  waves  retreat, 
In  hoarse,  deep  murmurs,  from  his  holy  feet ; 
And  the  chas'd  surges,  inly  roaring,  show 
The  hard  wet  sand  and  coral  hills  below. 


THE  PRE^rirM.  235 

With  limbs  that  falter,  and  with  hearts  that  swell, 
Down,  down  they  pass — a  steep  and  slippery  dell 
Around  thein  rise,  in  pristine  chaos  hurl'd 
The  ancient  rocks,  the  secrets  of  the  world  ; 
And  flowers  that  blush  beneath  the  ocean  green, 
And  caves,  the  sea-calves'  low-roof 'd  haunt,  are  seen. 
Down,  safely  down  the  narrow  pass  they  tread ; 
The  beetling  waters  storm  above  their  head  : 
While  far  beliind  retires  the  sinking  day, 
And  fades  on  Edom's  hills  its  latest  ray. 

Yet  not  from  Israel  fled  the  friendly  light, 
Or  dark  to  them,  or  cheerless  came  the  night, 
Still  in  their  van,  along  that  dreadful  road, 
Blaz'd  broad  and  fierce,  the  brandish'd  torch  of  God. 
Its  meteor  glare  a  tenfold  lustre  gave 
On  the  long  mirror  of  the  rosy  wave : 
While  its  blest  beams  a  sunUke  heat  supply 
Warm  every  cheek  and  dance  in  every  eye — 
To  them  alone — for  Misraim's  wizard  train 
Invoke  for  light  their  monster-gods  in  vain : 
Clouds   heap'd    on   clouds   their   struggling   sight 

confine. 
And  tenfold  darkness  broods  above  their  line. 
Yet  on  they  fare  by  reckless  vengeance  led, 
And  range  unconscious  through  the  ocean's  bed. 
Till  midway  now — that  strange  and  fiery  form 
Show'd  his   dread  visage  lightening  through   the 

storm ; 
With  withering  splendour  blasted  all  their  might, 
And  brake  their  chariot-wheels,  and  marred  their 

coursers'  flight. 
"  Fly,  Misraim,  fly  !" — The   ravenous  floods  they 

see, 
And,  fiercer  than  the  floods,  the  Deity. 
('  Fly,  Misraim,  fly  !" — From  Edom's  coral  strand 
Again  the  prophet  stretch'd  his  dreadful  wand : — 


236  THE  PBEXIUM. 

With  one  wild  crash  the  thundering  waters  sweep, 
And  all  is  waves — a  dark  and  lonely  deep^ 
Yet  o'er  these  lonely  waves  such  murmurs  past, 
As  mortal  wailing  swell'd  the  nightly  blast : 
And  strange  and  sad  the  whispering  breezes  bore 
The  groans  of  Egypt  to  Arabia's  shore. 

H£B£R. 


EXTRACT. 

Who,  when  nought  is  heard  around 
But  the  great  ocean's  solemn  sound, 
Feels  not  as  if  the  eternal  God 
Were  speaking  in  that  dread  abode, 
An  answering  voice  seems  kindly  given, 
From  the  multitude  of  stars  in  heaven: 
And  oft  a  smile  of  moonlight  fair 
To  perfect  peace  has  changed  despair. 
Low  as  we  are,  we  blend  our  fate 
With  things  so  beautifully  great; 
And  though  opprest  with  heaviest  grief 
From  nature's  bliss  we  draw  rehef, 
Assured  that  God's  most  gracious  eye 
Beholds  us  in  our  misery, 
And  sends  mild  sound  and  lovely  sight, 
To  change  that  misery  to  deUght 

wiLsoir. 


ENGLISH  CUSTOMS. 


The  dress  of  Englishmen*  wants  that  variety  which 
renders  the  figures  of  our  scenery  so  picturesque. 

*  These  remarks  are  extracted  from  certain  pretended 
Letters  of  a  Spanish  gentleman  named  Espriella,  residing 
in  England. 


THE  PREMIUM.  237 

You  might  think,  from  walking  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don, that  there  were  no  ministers  of  religion  in  the 

comitry  ;  J smiled  at  the  remark,  and  told  me 

that  some  of  the  dignified  clergy  wore  silk  aprons ; 
but  these  are  rarely  seen,  and  they  are  nore  gene- 
rally known  by  a  huge  and  hideous  wig,  once  con- 
sidered to  be  as  necessary  a  covering  for  a  learned 
head  as  an  ivy  bush  is  for  an  owl,  but  which  even 
physicians  have  now  discarded,  and  left  only  to 
schoolmasters  and  doctors  in  "divinity.  There  is, 
too,  this  remarkable  difference  between  the  costume 
of  England  and  of  Spain,  that  here  the  national 
dress  is  altogether  devoid  of  grace,  and  it  is  only 
modem  fashions  which  have  improved  it;  in  Spain. 
on  the  contrary,  nothing  can  be  more  graceful  than 
the  dresses  both  of  the  clergy  and  peasantry,  which 
have  from  time  immemorial  remained  unchanged ; 
while  our  better  ranks  clothe  themselves  in  a  worse 
taste,  because  they  imitate  the  apery  of  other  na- 
tions. What  I  say  of  their  costume  applies  wholly 
to  that  of  the  men  ;  the  dr^ss  of  English  women  is 
perfect,  as  far  as  it  goes ;  it  leaves  notliing  to  be 
wished, — except  that  there  should  be  a  little  more 
of  it. 

The  most  singular  figures  in  the  streets  of  this 
metropoUs  are  the  men  who  are  employed  in  carry- 
ing the  earth-coal,  which  they  remove  from  the 
barge  to  the  wagon,  and  again  from  the  wagon  to 
the  house,  upon  their  backs.  The  back  of  the  coat, 
therefore,  is  as  well  quilted  as  the  cotton  breastplate 
of  our  soldiers  in  America  in  old  times :  and  to  pro- 
tect it  still  more,  the  broad  flap  of  the  hat  lies  flat 
upon  the  shoulders.  The  head  consequently  seems 
to  bend  unusually  forward,  and  the  whole  figure  has 
the  appearance  of  having  been  bowed  beneath  habi- 
tual burdens.   The  lower  classes,  with  this  exception, 


5538  THE  PH2Mtl'3t. 

if  they  do  not  wear  the  cast  clothes  of  the  liigber 
ranks,  have  them  in  the  same  form.  The  post-men 
all  wear  the  royal  livery,  which  is  scarlet  and  gold  ; 
they  hurry  through  the  streets,  and  cross  from  side 
to  side  with  indefatigable  rapidity.  The  English 
doors  have  knockers  instead  of  bells,  and  there  is  an 
advantage  in  this  which  you  would  not  immediately 
perceive.  The  bell,  by  whomsoever  it  be  pulled, 
must  always  give  the  same  sound ;  but  the  knock- 
er may  be  so  handled  as  to  explain  who  plays  upon 
it,  and  accordingly  it  has  its  systematic  set  of  sig- 
nals. The  post-man  comes  with  two  loud  and  rapid 
raps,  such  as  no  person  but  himself  ever  gives.  One 
very  loud  one  marks  the  news-man.  A  single 
knock  of  less  vehemence  denotes  a  servant  or  other 
messenger.  Visitors  give  three  or  four.  Footmen 
or  coachmen  always  more  than  their  masters ;  and 
the  master  of  every  family  has  usually  his  particu- 
lar touch,  which  is  immediately  recognised. 

Every  shop  has  an  inscription  above  it  expressing 
the  name  of  its  owner,  4Uid  that  of  his  predecessor, 
if  the  business  has  been  so  long  established  as  to 
derive  a  certain  degree  of  respectabiUty  from  time. 
Cheap  warehouse  is  sometimes  added ;  and  if  the 
tradesman  has  the  honour  to  serve  any  one  of  the 
royal  family,  this  is  also  mentioned,  and  the  royal 
arms  in  a  style  of  expensive  carving  are  affixed  over 
the  door.  These  inscriptions  in  large  gilt  letters, 
shaped  with  the  greatest  nicety,  form  a  peculiar 
feature  in  the  streets  of  London.  In  former  times 
all  the  shops  had  large  signs  suspended  before  them, 
such  as  are  still  used  at  inns  in  the  country  ;  these 
have  long  since  disappeared ;  but  in  a  few  instances, 
where  the  shop  is  of  such  long  standing  that  it  is 
still  known  by  the  name  of  its  old  insignia,  a  small 


THE  PBEMlUsr.  239 

picture  still  preserves  the  sign,  placed  instead  of  one 
♦f  the  window  panes. 

If  I  were  to  pass  the  remainder  of  my  life  in  Lon- 
don, I  think  the  shops  would  always  continue  to 
amuse  me.  Something  extraordinary  or  beautiful 
is  for  ever  to  be  seen  in  them.  I  saw,  the  other 
day,  a  sturgeon,  above  two  varus  in  length,  hang- 
ing at  a  fishmonger's.  In  one  window  you  see  the 
most  exquisite  lamps  of  alabaster,  to  shed  a  pearly 
light  in  the  bed-chamber ;  or  formed  of  cut  glass, 
to  ghtter  like  diamonds  in  the  drawing-room ;  in 
another,  a  convex  mirror  reflects  the  whole  picture 
of  the  street,  with  all  its  moving  swarms,  or  you 
start  from  your  own  face  magnified  to  the  propor- 
tions of  a  giant's.  At  one  door  stands  a  little  Scotch- 
man taking  snuff, — in  one  window  a  Httle  gentleman 
with  his  coat  puckered  up  in  folds,  and  the  folds  filled 
with  water  to  show  that  it  is  proof  against  wet.  Here 
you  have  cages  full  of  birds  of  every  kind,  and  on 
the  upper  story  live  peacocks  are  spreading  their 
fans  ;  another  window  displays  the  rarest  birds  and 
beasts  stuffed,  and  in  glass  cases ;  in  another  you 
have  every  sort  of  artificial  fly  for  the  angler,  and 
another  is  full  of  busts  painted  to  the  life,  with  glass 
eyes,  and  dressed  in  full  fashion  to  exhibit  the  wigs 
which  are  made  within,  in  the  very  newest  and 
most  approved  taste.  And  thus  is  there  a  per- 
petual exhibition  of  whatever  is  curious  in  nature 
or  art,  exquisite  in  workmanship,  or  singular  in  cos- 
tume ;  and  the  display  is  perpetually  varying,  as 
the  ingenuity  of  trade,  and  the  absurdity  of  fashion, 
are  ever  producing  something  new. 

SOUTHET. 


240  THE  pHEMirsr. 


THE  SEASHELL. 


Upon-  a  rock's  extremest  verge, 

Round  which  the  foaming  billows  beat, 

I  sat  and  listen'd  to  the  surge 

Which  threw  its  white  spray  o'er  my  feet. 

Long,  long  I  linger'd,  lost  in  thought, 
Still  gazing  on  the  boundless  sea, 

In  whose  unceasing  flow  is  wrought 
An  emblem  of  eternity. 

I  gather'd  from  the  pebbled  shore 

A  shell,  with  rainbow  beauties  tinged ; 

And  home  my  ocean-prize  I  bore 

With  many-colour'd  sea-weed  fringed. 

As  to  my  listening  ear  I  held 

The  shining  gem  the  billows  gave, 

Within  its  fairy  cavern  swell'd 
The  mimic  murmur  of  the  wave. 

Though  distant  far  my  footsteps  stray'd 
Through  shady  grove  or  sunny  plain, 

Still,  still  its  fairy  cadence  made 
An  echo  of  the  roaring  main. 

'Tis  thus  the  aged  seaman  dreams. 
When  anchor'd  in  his  tranquil  home ; 

In  wand'ring  fancy  still  he  seems 

Through  dark  and  stormy  seas  to  roam. 

He  slumbers  in  a  land  of  peace ; 

He  hears  no  more  the  waters'  strife  ; 
But  faithful  memory  still  will  trace 

The  dangers  of  his  early  life.  akox- 


TEE  PREMIUM.  241 


THE  SENSE  OF  DUTY. 

Theue  is  one  principle  of  the  soul,  which  makes 
all  men  essentially  equal,  which  places  all  on  a 
level  as  to  means  of  happiness,  which  may  place  in 
the  first  rank  of  human  beings  those  who  are  the 
most  depressed  in  worldly  condition,  and  which, 
therefore,  gives  the  most  depressed  a  title  to  interest 
and  respect.  I  refer  to  the  sense  of  duty,  to  the 
power  of  discerning  and  doing  right,  to  the  moral 
and  religious  principle,  to  the  inward  monitor  which 
speaks  in  the  name  of  God,  to  the  capacity  of  virtue 
or  excellence. 

This  is  the  gi*eat  gift  of  God.  We  can  conceive 
no  greater.  In  seraph  and  archangel,  we  can  con- 
ceive no  higher  energy  than  the  power  of  virtue;  or 
the  power  of  forming  themselves  after  the  will  and 
moral  perfections  of  God. 

This  power  breaks  down  all  barriers  between  the 
seraph  and  the  lowest  human  being ;  it  makes  them 
brethren.  Whoever  has  derived  from  God  this  per- 
ception and  capacity  of  rectitude,  has  a  bond  of  union 
with  the  spiritual  world,  stronger  than  all  the  ties 
of  nature.  He  possesses  a  principle,  which,  if  he 
is  faithful  to  it,  must  cany  him  forward  for  ever, 
and  ensures  to  him  the  improvement  and  happiness 
of  the  highest  order  of  beings. 

It  is  this  moral  power,  which  makes  all  men  es- 
sentially equal,  which  annihilates  all  the  distinctions 
of  this  world.  Through  this,  the  ignorant  and  the 
poor  may  become  the  greatest  of  the  race ;  for  the 
greatest  is  he  who  is  most  true  to  the  principle  of 
duty.  It  is  not  improbable,  that  the  noblest  human 
beings  are  to  be  found  in  the  least  favoured  conditions 
of  society,  among  those  whose  names  are  never  utter- 

Q 


B4»  THE  phemium. 

ed  beyond  the  narrow  circle  in  which  they  toil  and 
suffer,  who  have  but  "two  mites"  to  give  away, 
who  have  perhaps  not  even  that,  but  who  "  desire 
to  be  fed  with  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  the  rich 
man's  table,"  for  in  this  class  may  be  found  those, 
who  have  withstood  the  severest  temptation,  who 
have  practised  the  most  arduous  duties,  who  have 
confided  in  God  under  the  heaviest  trials,  who  have 
been  most  wronged  and  have  forgiven  most ;  and 
these  are  the  great,  the  exalted.  It  matters  nothing, 
what  the  particular  duties  are  to  which  the  indivi- 
dual is  called, — how  minute  or  obscure  in  their  out- 
Ward  form.  Greatness  in  God's  sight  lies,  not  in  the 
extent  of  the  sphere  which  is  filled,  or  of  the  effect 
which  is  produced,  but  altogether  in  the  power  of 
virtue  in  the  soul,  in  the  energy  with  which  God's 
will  is  chosen,  with  which  trial  is  borne,  and  good- 
ness loved  and  pursued. 

The  sense  of  duty  is  the  greatest  gift  of  God. 
The  idea  of  right  is  the  primary  and  the  highest 
revelation  of  God  to  the  human  mind,  and  all  out- 
ward revelations  are  founded  on  and  addressed 
to  it. 

All  mysteries  of  science  and  theology  fade  away 
before  the  grandeur  of  the  simple  perception  of  duty, 
which  dawns  on  the  mind  of  the  little  child.  That 
perception  brings  him  into  the  moral  kingdom  of 
God.  That  lays  on  him  an  everlasting  bond.  He, 
in  whom  the  conviction  of  duty  is  unfolded,  be- 
comes subject  from  that  moment  to  a  law,  which 
no  power  in  the  universe  can  abrogate. 

He  forms  a  new  and  indissoluble  connexion  with 
God,  that  of  an  accountable  being.  He  begins  to 
stand  before  an  inward  tribunal,  on  the  decisions  of 
which  his  whole  happiness  rests  ;  he  hears  a  voice, 
wliich  if  faithfully  followed,  will  guide  him  to  per- 


THE  rttfi.MioMv  243 

fection>  and  in  neglecting  wliich  he  brings  upon 
himself  inevitable  misery. 

We  little  understand  the  solemnity  of  the  moral 
principle  in  every  human  mind.  We  think  not 
howr  aw^ful  are  its  functions.  We  forget  that  it  is 
the  germ  of  immortality.  Did  we  understand  it,  we 
should  look  with  a  feeUng  of  reverence  on  every 
being  to  whom  it  is  given*  channinot. 


EFFECT  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  NELSON. 

The  death  of  Nelson  was  felt  in  England  as  some*. 
Ihing  more  than  a  public  calamity ;  men  started  at 
the  intelligence,  and  turned  pale;  as  if  they  had 
heard  of  the  loss  of  a  dear  friend.  An  object  of  our 
admiration  and  affection,  of  our  pride  and  of  our 
hopes,  W2LS  suddenly  taken  from  us ;  and  it  seemed 
as  if  we  had  never,  till  then,  known  how  deeply  we 
ioved  and  reverenced  him.  What  the  country  had 
lost  in  its  great  naval  hero — the  greatest  of  our  own, 
and  of  all  former  times,  was  scarcely  taken  into  the 
account  of  grief.  So  perfectly,  indeed,  had  he  per- 
formed his  part,  that  the  maritime  war,  after  the  battle 
of  Trafalgar,  was  considered  at  an  end :  the  fleets 
of  the  enemy  not  merely  defeated,  but  destroyed : 
new  navies  must  be  built,  and  a  new  race  of  seamen 
reared  for  them,  before  the  possibility  of  their  invad- 
ing our  shores  could  again  be  contemplated.  It 
was  not,  therefore,  from  any  selfish  reflection  upon 
the  magnitude  of  our  loss  that  we  mourned  for  him : 
the  general  sorrow  was  of  a  higher  character.  The 
people  of  England  grieved  that  funeral  ceremonies, 
and  public  monuments,  and  posthumous  rewards 
were  all  which  they  could  now  bestow  upon  him, 
whom   the   king,  the   legislature,  and  the  n*tion, 


244  THE  FKEMirH. 

would  have  alike  delighted  to  honour ;  whom  every 
tongue  would  have  blessed ;  whose  presence  in 
every  village  through  whic.U  he  might  have  passed 
would  have  wakened  the  church  bells,  have  given 
schoolboys  a  holyday,  have  drawn  children  from 
their  sports  to  gaze  upon  him,  and  " old  men  fiom 
the  chimney  corner,"  to  look  upon  Nelson  ere  they 
died.  The  victory  of  Trafalgar  was  celebrated, 
indeed,  with  the  usual  forms  of  rejoicing,  but  they 
were  without  joy  :  for  such  already  was  the  glory  of 
the  British  navy,  through  Nelson's  surpassing  ge- 
nius, that  it  scarcely  seemed  to  receive  any  addition 
from  the  most  signal  victory  that  ever  was  achieved 
upon  the  seas ;  and  the  destruction  of  this  mighty 
fleet,  by  wliich  all  the  maritime  schemes  of  France 
were  totally  frustrated,  hardly  appeared  to  add  to 
our  security  or  strength ;  for,  while  Nelson  was 
living,  to  watch  the  combined  squadrons  of  the 
enemy,  we  felt  ourselves  as  secure  as  now,  when 
they  were  no  longer  in  existence.  southet. 


THE  PLAYTHINGS. 

Oh  !  mother,  here  's  the  very  top 

That  brother  used  to  spin ; 
The  vase  with  seeds  I  've  seen  him  drop 

To  call  our  robin  in  ; 
The  line  that  held  his  pretty  kite, 

His  bow.  Ins  cup  and  ball, 
The  slate  on  which  he  learned  to  write. 

His  feather,  cap,  and  all ! 

My  dear,  I  'd  put  the  things  away 
Just  where  they  were  before  : 

Go,  Anna,  take  him  out  to  play,      , 
And  shut  the  closet  door 


THE  PREMIUM, 


245 


Sweet  innocent !  he  little  thinks 
The  slightest  thought  expressed 

Of  him  that  's  lost,  how  deep  it  sinks 
Within  a  mother's  breast ! 

2CISS  GOULD* 


TO  A  CHILD. 


A  VIOLET  springing  in  the  shade, 

A  tone  of  music  waking 
From  the  leaf  d  bough,  or  grassy  blade, 

In  the  soft  breezes  shaking ; 
A  ray  of  starlight  trembling  o'er 

The  dusk  face  of  a  sleeping  sea — 
What,  of  such  mild  dehghts,  can  more 

Sweetest  of  sweets,  resemble  thee  1 
Art  not  thyself  a  violet  1 

Is  not  the  breezy  music  thine  1 
Or  ever  in  ether  glimmer'd  yet 

A  star  more  pure  or  more  divine  1 
Thou  steal'st  upon  my  heart,  as  steals 

A  shadow  on  the  plain, 
And  my  heart  darkens,  but  it  feels 

A  saddening  joy,  not  pain  ; 
Sadness,  to  think  a  world  of  wo 

For  such  a  spirit  is  spread  around. 
And  joy,  in  such  a  world,  to  know 

A  spirit  so  heavenly  is  found, — 
A  cherub  for  a  moment  given, 

To  teach  weak  man  what  being's  worth  ; 
Ever  to  keep  his  thoughts  on  heaven. 

Yet  smooth  the  chain  that  binds  to  earth. 
Be  happy,  for  thou  mak'st  us  so — 

It  Is  enough  to  see 
The  radiance  of  thy  face,  to  know 

A  pure  felicity ; 


246  THE  PREMIUM. 

The  sight  of  innocence  and  love, 

Gavb'd  in  the  light  of  childish  yeais. 
This  is  the  better  spell  to  prove 

An  antidote  to  tears. 
Wend  through  the  world,  nor  fear  its  cares 

Thy  path  with  flowers  sliall  shine, 
For  men  will  steal  the  sweets  from  theirs 

To  strew  them  over  thine. 


THE  DEAD  SOLDIER. 

Thiite  was  the  death  that  many  meet. 

That  many  deem  the  best ; 
To  lay  them  down  at  glory^s  feet 

To  their  eternal  rest — 
For  glory's  glittering  toy  to  rave, 
And  find  the  bauble  m  the  grave  I 

What  'vails  it  where  we  barter  life  1 

Whether  upon  the  plain, 
Amid  the  spirit-stirring  strife 

Or  on  the  stormy  main  1 
On  land  or  sea,  it  is  the  same ; 
We  die  ;  and  what  to  us  is  fame ! 

Why  liest  thou  stiff  and  idle  there. 

Thy  hand  upon  thy  sword, 
While  rapine  shouts  upon  the  air 

His  fearful  signal  word  1 
Up,  up  !  and  join  the  gathering  clan 
Of  human  fiends  that  prey  on  man. 

Up  and  and  away  J   the  squadron'd  horse 
Approach  in  fierce  array  ; 


THE  PUEMIUM.  247 

They  '11  mar  thy  poor  dishonoured  corse 

And  tread  thy  form  away  : 
Madly  o'er  faint  and  dead  they  pour, 
And  hoof  and  fetlock  smoke  with  gore. 

Thou  heed'st  me  not ;  thou  hearest  not 

The  trumpet  echoing  near  ; 
And  even  the  roaring  cannon-shot 

Fhes  soundless  by  thine  ear, 
Thy  leader  shouts — away,  away  ! 
Ah,  soldier  !    thou  canst  not  obey  ! 

An  hour  ago  thou  wert  all  Ufe, 

With  fiery  soul  and  eye, 
Rushing  amid  the  kindling  strife, 

To  do  thy  best,  and  die — 
And  now  a  gory  mass  of  clay 
Is  stretch'd  upon  the  warrior's  way, 

W  hy  are  those  trappings  on  thy  form  1 

The  harness  could  not  shield 
Thy  bosom  from  the  iron  storm, 

That  hurtled  o'er  the  field. 
Men  fled  the  terrors  of  thy  brow — 
The  vulture  does  not  fear  thee  now  ! 

A  thousand  like  thyself,  ah  me  ! 

Are  stretched  upon  the  ground  ; 
While  the  glad  trump  of  victory 

Is  pealing  round  and  round  : 
Hark,  how  the  victors  shout  and  cheer ! 
It  matters  not — the  dead  are  here  ! 

Arise  !  the  paean  rings  aloud, 

The  battle  field  is  won  ; 
Up,  up !    and  join  the  eager  crowd. 

Before  the  booty's  done  : 


248  THE    PREJIIUM. 

"What — wilt  not  take  the  meed  of  toil, 
Thy  share  of  glory  and  of  spoil  1 

Silent,  and  grim,  and  sad  to  view, 

Thou  liest  upon  the  plain  ; 
To  bleach  or  fester  in  the  dew, 

The  sun,  the  winds,  the  rain  : 
What  art  thou  now,  poor  luckless  tool  ? 
A  murderer's  mark,  a  tyrant's  fool. 

H.  D.  BIKD. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  PURITAXS. 

The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  de- 
rived a  peculiar  character  from  the  daily  contempla- 
tion of  superior  beings  and  eternal  interests.  Not 
content  with  acknowledging,  in  general  terms,  an 
over-ruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed 
ever^  event  to  the  will  of  the  Great  Being,  for 
whose  power  nothing  was  too  vast,  for  whose  in- 
spection nothing  was  too  minute.  To  know  him, 
to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him,  was  with  them  the 
great  end  of  existence.  They  rejected  with  con- 
tempt the  ceremonious  homage  which  other  sects 
substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul.  In- 
stead of  catching  occasional  ghmpses  of  the  Deity" 
through  an  obscuring  veil,  they  aspired  to  gaze  full 
on  the  intolerable  brightness,  and  to  commune  with 
him  face  to  face.  Hence  originated  their  contempt 
for  terrestrial  distinctions.  The  dilference  between 
the  greatest  and  meanest  of  mankind  seemed  to 
vanish,  when  compared  with  the  boundless  interval 
which  separated  the  whole  race  from  him  on  whom 
their  own  eyes  were  constantly  fixed.  They  re- 
cognised no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favour ;  and, 
confident  of  that  favour,  they  despised  all  the  ac- 


TUB  PRE:.riuM.  249 

complishments  and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world. 
If  they  were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  phi- 
losophers and  poets,  they  were  deeply  read  in  the 
oracles  of  God.  If  their  names  were  not  found  in 
the  registers  of  heralds,  they  felt  assured  that  they 
were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life.  If  their  steps 
were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train  of  me- 
nials, legions  of  ministering  angels  had  charge  over 
them.  Their  palaces  were  houses  not  made  with 
hands  ;  their  diadems  crowns  of  glory  which  should 
never  fade  away  !  On  the  rich  and  the  eloquent, 
on  nobles  and  priests,  they  looked  down  with  con- 
tempt :  for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich  in  a 
more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a  more  sub- 
lime language,  nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earlier 
creation,  and  priests  by  the  imposition  of  a  mightier 
hand.  The  very  meanest  of  them  was  a  being  to 
whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  importance  be- 
longed— on  whose  shghtcst  action  the  Spirits  of 
light  and  darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest, 
who  had  been  destined,  before  heaven  and  earth 
were  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity  which  should  con- 
tinue when  heaven  and  earth  should  have  passed 
away.  Events  which  short-sighted  pohticians  as- 
cribed to  earthly  causes  had  been  ordained  on  his 
account.  For  his  sake  empires  had  risen,  and 
flourished,  and  decayed.  For  his  sake  the  Almighty 
had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the  evange- 
list, and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  He  had  been 
rescued  by  no  common  deliverer  from  the  grasp 
of  no  common  foe.  He  had  been  ransomed  by  the 
sweat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  by  the  blood  of  no  earthly 
sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the  sun  had  been 
darkened,  that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the 
dead  had  arisen,  that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at 
the  sufferings  of  hor  expiring  God  ! 


250  THE  PREMIUM. 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different 
men,  the  one  self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude, 
passion;  the  other  proud,  cahn,  inflexible,  sagacious. 
He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust  before  his  Maker ; 
but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  kis 
devotional  retirement,  he  prayed  with  convulsions, 
and  groans,  and  tears.  He  was  half  maddened  by 
glorious  or  terrible  illusions.  He  heard  the  lyres 
of  angels,  or  the  tempting  whispers  of  fiends.  He 
caught  a  gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision,  or  woke 
screaming  from  dreams  of  everlasting  fire.  Like 
Vane,  he  thought  himself  intrusted  with  the  sceptre 
of  the  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  soul  that  God  had  hid  his  face 
from  him.  But,  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council, 
or  girt  on  his  sword  of  war,  these  tempestuous  work- 
ings of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind 
them.  People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly,  but 
their  uncouth  visages,  and  heard  nothing  from 
them  but  their  groans  and  their  w^hining  hymns, 
might  laugh  at  them.  But  those  had  little  reason 
to  laugh  who  encountered  them  in  the  hall  of  de- 
bate, or  in  the  field  of  battle.  These  fanatics  brought 
to  civil  and  military  aifairs,  a  coolness  of  judgment, 
and  an  immutabiUty  of  purpose  which  some  writers 
have  thought  inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal, 
but  which  were  in  fact  the  necessary  effects  of  it. 
The  intensity  of  their  feelings  on  one  subject  made 
them  tranquil  in  every  other.  One  overpowering 
sentiment  had  subjected  to  itself  pity  and  hatred, 
ambition  and  fear.  Death  had  lost  its  terrors,  and 
pleasure  its  charms.  They  had  their  smiles  and 
their  tears,  their  raptures  and  their  sorrows,  but 
not  for  things  of  this  world.  Enthusiasm  had 
made  them  Stoics,  had  cleared  their  minds  from 
every  vulgar  passion  and  prejudice,  and  raised  them 


THE  PRE3IIUM.  251 

above  the  influence  of  clanger  and  of  corruption. 
It  sometimes  might  lead  them  to  pursue  unwise 
ends,  but  never  to  choose  unwise  means.  They 
went  through  the  world  like  Sir  Artegale's  iron 
man  Talus  with  his  flail,  crushing  and  trampling 
down  oppressors,  mingling  with  human  beings,  but 
having  neither  part  nor  lot  in  human  infirmities ; 
insensible  to  fatigue,  to  pleasure,  and  to  pain  ;  not 
to  be  pierced  by  any  weapon,  not  to  be  withstood 
by  any  barrier. 

Such  we  beheve  to  have  been  the  character  of 
the  Puritans.  We  perceive  the  absurdity  of  their 
manners.  We  dislike  the  sullen  gloom  of  their  do- 
mestic habits.  We  acknowledge  that  the  tone  of 
their  minds  was  often  injured  by  straining  after 
things  too  high  for  mortal  reach  :  and  we  know 
that,  in  spite  of  their  hatred  of  Popery,  they  too 
often  fell  into  the  worst  vices  of  that  bad  system, 
intolerance  and  extravagant  austerity, — that  they 
had  their  anchorites  and  their  crusades,  their  Dun- 
stans  and  their  De  Montforts,  their  Dominies  and 
their  Escobars.  Yet,  when  all  circumstances  are 
taken  into  consideration,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  pro- 
nounce them  a  brave,  a  wise,  an  honest  and  an  use- 
ful body.  EDINBURGH  KEVIEW. 


STANZAS. 

When-  you  mournfully  rivet  your  tear-laden  eyes. 
That  have  seen  the  last  sunset  of  hope  pass  away, 
On  some  bright  orb,  that  seems,  through  the  still 

sapphire  sky, 
In  beauty  and  splendour,  to  roll  on  its  way  : 

Oh  remember,  this  earth,  if  beheld  from  afar, 
Would  seera  wrapt  in  a  halo  as  clear  and  as  bright 


252  THE  puEMiu^r. 

As  the  pure  silver  radiance  enshrining  yon  star, 
Where  your  spirit  is  eagerly  soaring  to-night. 

And  at  this  very  moment,  perhaps,  some  poor  heart, 
That  is  aching  and  breaking  in  that  distant  sphere. 
Gazes  down  on  this  dark  world,  and  longs  to  depart 
From  its  own  dismal  home,  to  a  brighter  one  here. 

MISS  KEMBLE. 


THOUGHTS  AT  MIDXIGHT. 

Dear  babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore, 
And  in  far  other  scenes !  For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe  !  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds. 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores, 
And  mountain  crags ;  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sound  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher  !  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and,  by  giving,  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 


THE  PREMHT^r.  253 

Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw  ;  whether  the  eave-drops 

fall, 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon. 

colehidge. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  POETRY. 

Perhaps  no  person  can  be  a  poet,  or  can  even 
enjoy  poetry,  without  a  certain  unsoundness  of 
mind,  if  any  thing  which  gives  so  much  pleasure 
ought  to  be  called  unsoundness.  By  poetry  we 
mean,  not  of  course  all  writing  in  verse,  nor  even 
all  good  writing  in  verse.  Our  definition  cxcludea 
many  metrical  compositions,  which,  on  other  grounds, 
deserve  the  highest  praise.  By  poetry,  we  mean  the 
art  of  employing  words  in  such  a  manner  as  to  pro- 
duce an  illusion  on  the  imagination,  the  art  of  do- 
ing by  means  of  words  what  the  painter  does  by 
means  of  colours.  Thus  the  greatest  of  poets  has 
described  it,  in  lines  universally  admired  for  the 
vigour  and  felicity  of  their  diction,  and  still  more 
valuable  on  account  of  the  just  notion  which  they 
convey  of  the  art  in  which  he  excelled. 

'As  imagination  bodies  forth 
Tlip  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name.' 

These  arc  the  fruits  of  the  *  fine  frenzy'  whichr 
he  ascribes  to  the  poet, — a  fine  frenzy,  doubtless,  but 
still  a  frenzy.     Truth  indeed,  is  essential  to  poetry; 


854  THE  PREMltJM. 

but  it  is  the  truth  of  madness.  The  reasonings  arS 
just ;  but  the  premises  are  false.  After  the  first 
Suppositions  have  been  made,  every  thing  ought  to 
be  consistent ;  but  those  first  suppositions  require  a 
degree  of  creduhty  which  almost  amounts  to  a  par- 
tial and  temporary  derangement  of  the  intellect. 
Hence  of  all  people  children  are  the  most  imagi- 
native. They  abandon  themselves  without  reserve 
to  every  illusion.  Every  image  which  is  strongly 
presented  to  their  mental  eye  produces  on  them  the 
effect  of  reality.  No  man,  whatever  his  sensibility 
may  be,  is  ever  affected  by  Hamlet  or  Lear,  as  a 
little  girl  is  affected  by  the  story  of  poor  Red  Riding- 
hood.  She  knows  that  it  is  all  false,  that  wolves 
cannot  speak,  that  there  are  no  wolves  in  England. 
Yet  in  spite  of  her  knowledge  she  believes ;  she 
Weeps,  she  trembles ;  she  dares  not  go  into  a  dark 
room  lest  she  should  feel  the  teeth  of  the  monster 
at  her  throat.  Such  is  the  despotism  of  the  imagi- 
nation over  uncultivated  minds. 

In  a  rude  state  of  society  men  are  children  with  a 
greater  variety  of  ideas.  It  is  therefore  in  such  a 
state  of  society  that  we  may  expect  to  find  the  poeti- 
cal temperament  in  its  highest  perfection.  In  an  en- 
lightened age  there  will  be  much  intelligence,  much 
science,  much  philosophy,  abundance  of  just  classifi- 
cation and  subtle  analysis,  abundance  of  wit  and  elo- 
quence, abundance  of  verses,  and  even  of  good  ones, 
— but  little  poetry.  Men  will  judge  and  compare ; 
but  they  will  not  create.  They  will  talk  about  the 
old  poets,  and  comment  on  them,  and  to  a  certain 
degree  enjoy  them.  But  they  will  scarcely  be  able 
to  conceive  the  effect  which  poetry  produced  on 
their  ruder  ancestors,  the  agony,  the  ecstasy,  the 
plenitude  of  belief.  The  Greek  Rhapsodists,  ac- 
cording to  Plato,  could  not  recite  Homer  without 


THE  f  nEMltJ3I.  359 

almost  fallitig  into  convulsions**  The  Mohawk  hard* 
ly  feels  the  scalping- knife  while  he  shouts  his  death- 
song.  The  power  which  the  ancient  bards  of  Wales 
and  Germany  exercised  over  their  auditors  seems  to 
modern  readers  almost  miraculous.  Such  feehngg 
are  very  rare  in  a  civiUzed  community,  and  most 
rare  among  those  who  participate  most  in  its  im- 
provements. They  Hnger  longest  among  the  pea- 
santry. 

Poetry  produces  an  illusion  on  the  eye  of  the 
mind,  as  a  magic  lantern  produces  an  illusion  on 
the  eye  of  the  body.  And,  as  the  magic  lantern 
acts  best  in  a  dark  room,  poetry  effects  its  purpose 
most  completely  in  a  dark  age.  As  the  light  of 
knowledge  breaks  in  upon  its  exhibitions,  as  the 
outlines  of  certainty  become  more  and  more  definite, 
and  the  shades  of  probability  more  and  more  dis- 
tinct, the  hues  and  lineaments  of  the  phantoms 
which  it  calls  up  grow  fainter  and  fainter.  We 
cannot  unite  the  incompatible  advantages  of  reality 
and  deception,  the  clear  discernment  of  truth  and 
the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  fiction. 

He  who,  in  an  enfightened  and  literary  society, 
aspires  to  be  a  great  poet,  must  first  become  a  little 
child.  He  must  take  to  pieces  the  whole  web  of 
his  mind.  He  must  unlearn  much  of  that  know- 
ledge which  has  perhaps  constituted  hitherto  his 
chief  title  to  superiority.  His  very  talents  will  be  a 
hinderance  to  him.  His  difficulties  will  be  propor- 
tioned to  his  proficiency  in  the  pursuits  which  are 
fashionable  among  his  contemporaries ;  and  that 
proficiency  will  in  general  be  proportioned  to  the 
vigour  and  activity  of  his  mind.  And  it  is  well,  if, 
after  all  his  sacrifices  and  exertions,  his  works  do  not 

*  See  the  Dialogue  between  Socrates  and  lo. 


256  THE  Pr.E3IIU.M. 

resemble  a  lisping  man,  or  a  modem  ruin.  We 
have  seen  in  our  own  time  great  talents,  intense  la- 
bour, and  long  meditation,  employed  in  this  strug- 
gle against  the  spirit  of  the  age ;  and  employed, 
we  will  not  say  absolutely  m  vain,  but  with  dubious 
success  and  feeble  applause. 

EDIXBURSH    BEYISW. 


THE  WOUNDED  EAGLE. 

Eagle  !  this  is  not  thy  sphere  ! 
Warrior-bird,  what  seekest  thou  here  ? 
Wherefore  by  the  fountain's  brink 
Doth  thy  royal  pinion  sink  ? 
Wherefore  on  the  violet's  bed 
Layst  thou  thus  thy  drooping  head  1 
Thou  that  holdst  the  blast  in  scorn, 
Thou,  that  wearst  the  wings  of  mom ! 

Eagle  !  wilt  thou  not  arise  1 
Look  upon  thine  own  bright  skies  ! 
Lift  thy  glance  ! — the  fiery  sun 
There  his  pride  of  place  hath  won, 
And  the  mountain  lark  is  there ; 
And  sweet  sound  hath  fiU'd  the  air. 
Hast  thou  left  tbat  realm  on  high  1 — 
Oh  it  can  be  but  to  die  ! 

Eagle,  eagle  !  thou  hast  bow'd 
From  thuie  empire  o'er  the  cloud  ! 
Thou  that  hadst  ethereal  birth  : 
Thou  hast  stoop'd  too  near  the  earth. 
And  the  hunter's  shaft  hath  found  thee, 
And  the  toils  of  death  have  bound  thee ! 
Wherefore  didst  thou  leave  thy  place, 
Creature  of  a  kingly  race  ^ 


THE  PREMIUM.  257 

Wert  thou  weary  of  thy  throne  t 
Was  the  sky's  dominion  lone  1 
Chill  and  lone  it  well  might  be, 
Yet  that  mighty  wing  was  free  ! 
Now  the  chain  is  o'er  it  cast, 
From  thy  heart  the  blood  flows  fast 
Wo  for  gifted  souls  and  high  ! 
Is  not  such  their  destiny  1 

MRS.  HEHAKS. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MASO^. 

There  was  once  upon  a  time  a  poor  mason,  or 
bricklayer  in  Granada,  who  kept  all  the  saints'  days 
and  holydays,  and  saint  Monday  into  the  bargain, 
and  yet,  with  all  his  devotion,  he  grew  poorer  and 
poorer,  and  could  scarcely  earn  bread  for  his  nu- 
merous family.  One  night  he  was  roused  from  his 
first  sleep  by  a  knocking  at  his  door.  He  opened  it, 
and  beheld  before  him  a  tall,  meagre,  cadaverous 
looking  priest.  "  Hark  ye,  honest  friend,"  said  the 
stranger,  "  I  have  observed  that  you  are  a  good 
Christian,  and  one  to  be  trusted ;  will  you  under- 
take a  job  this  very  night  1" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Senor  Padre,  on  condition 
tliat  I  am  paid  accordingly." 

"  That  you  shall  be,  but  you  must  sufler  yourself 
to  be  bUndfolded." 

To  this  the  mason  made  no  objection ;  so  being 
hoodwinked,  he  was  led  by  the  priest  through  va- 
rious rough  lanes  and  winding  passages  until  they 
stopped  before  the  portal  of  a  house.  The  priest 
then  applied  a  key,  turned  a  creaking  lock,  and 
opened  what  sounded  like  a  ponderous  door.  They 
entered,  the  door  was  closed  and  bolted,  and  the 
R 


S58  TaE  FREMIUM* 

mason  was  conducted  through  an  echoing  corridor 
and  spacious  hall,  to  an  interior  part  of  the  build- 
ing. Here  the  bandage  was  removed  from  his  eyes, 
and  he  found  himself  in  a  patio,  or  court  dimly 
lighted  by  a  single  lamp. 

In  the  centre  was  the  dry  basin  of  an  old  Moor- 
ish fountain,  under  which  the  priest  requested  him 
to  form  a  small  vault,  bricks  and  mortar  being  at 
hand  for  the  purpose.  He  accordingly  worked  all 
night,  but  without  finishing  the  job.  Just  before 
daybreak  the  priest  put  a  piece  of  gold  into  his 
hand,  and  having  again  blindfolded  him,  conducted 
him  back  to  his  dwelling, 

"  Axe  you  willing,"  said  he,  "to  return  and  com- 
plete your  workl" 

"  Gladly,  Senor  Padre,  provided  I  am  as  welJ 
paid." 

"  Well  then,  to-morrow  at  midnight  I  will  call 
again." 

He  did  so,  and  the  vault  was  completed.  "  Now," 
said  the  priest,  "  yo'i  must  help  me  to  bring  forth 
the  bodies  that  are  to  be  buried  in  this  vault." 

The  poor  mason's  hair  rose  on  his  head  at  these 
words:  he  followed  the  priest  with  trembling  steps, 
into  a  retired  cha.-nber  of  the  mansion,  expecting 
to  behold  some  ghastly  spectacle  of  death,  but  v^'as 
relieved,  on  perceiving  three  or  four  portly  jars 
standing  in  one  corner.  They  were  evidently  full 
of  money,  and  it  was  v/ith  great  labour  that  he  and 
the  priest  carried  them  forth  and  consigned  them  to 
their  tomb.  The  vault  was  then  closetl,  the  pave- 
ment replaced  and  all  traces  of  the  work  obliter- 
ated. 

The  mason  was  again  hoodwinked  and  led  forth 
by  a  route  different  from  that  by  which  he  had 
come.     After  they  had  wandered  for  a  long  time 


THE  PREMIUM.  269 

througli  a  perplexed  maze  of  lanes  and  alleys,  they 
halted.  The  priest  then  put  two  pieces  of  gold  into 
his  hand.  "  Wait  here,"  said  he,  "  until  you  hear 
the  cathedral  bell  toll  for  matins.  If  you  presume 
to  uncover  your  eyes  before  tliat  time,  evil  will  befall 
you."     So  saying  he  departed. 

The  mason  waited  faithfully,  amusing  himself  by 
weighing  the  gold  pieces  in  his  hand  and  clinking 
thein  against  each  other.  The  moment  the  cathe- 
dral bell  rung  its  matin  peal,  he  uncovered  his  eyes 
and  found  himself  on  the  banks  of  the  Xenil ;  from 
whence  he  made  the  best  of  his  way  home,  and 
revelled  with  his  family  for  a  whole  fortnight  on  the 
profits  of  his  two  nights'  work,  after  which  he  was 
as  poor  as  ever. 

He  continued  to  work  a  little  and  pray  a  good 
deal,  and  keep  holydays  and  saints'  days  from  year 
to  year,  while  his  family  grew  up  as  gaunt  and  rag- 
ged as  a  crew  of  gypsies. 

As  he  was  sealed  one  morning  at  the  door  of  his 
hovel,  he  was  accosted  by  a  rich  old  curmudgeon 
who  was  noted  for  owning  many  houses  and  being 
a  griping  landlord. 

The  man  of  money  eyed  him  for  a  moment,  from 
beneath  a  pair  of  shagged  eyebrows. 

"  I  am  told,  friend,  that  you  are  very  poor." 

"  There  is  no  denyhig  the  fact,  Senor ;  it  speaks 
for  itself." 

♦*  I  presume,  then,  you  will  be  glad  of  a  job,  and 
will  work  cheap." 

"  As  cheap,  my  master,  as  any  mason  in  Granada." 

"  That's  what  I  want.  I  have  an  old  house  fall- 
en to  decay,  that  costs  me  more  money  than  it  is 
worth  to  keep  it  in  repair,  for  nobody  will  live  in  it; 
so  I  must  contrive  to  patch  it  up  and  keep  it  to- 
gether at  as  small  expense  as  possible." 


860  TUB  phemium. 

The  mason  was  accordingly  conducted  to  a  huge 
deserted  house  that  seemed  going  to  ruin.  Passing 
through  several  em})ty  halls  and  chambers,  he  en- 
tered an  inner  court  where  his  eye  was  caught  by 
an  old  Moorish  fountain. 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  *'  It  seems,"  said  he, 
**  as  if  I  had  been  in  this  place  before ;  but  it  is 
like  a  dream — Pray  who  occupied  this  house  for- 
merly!" 

"A  pest  upon  him!"  cried  the  landlord.  "It 
was  an  old  miserly  priest,  who  cared  for  nobody 
but  himself.  He  was  said  to  be  immensely  rich, 
and,  having  no  relations,  it  was  thought  he  would 
leave  all  his  treasure  to  the  church.  He  died  sud- 
denly, and  the  priests  and  friars  thronged  to  take 
possession  of  his  wealth,  but  nothing  could  they  find 
but  a  few  ducats  in  a  leathern  purse.  The  worst  luck 
has  fallen  on  me ;  for  since  his  death,  the  old  fellow 
continues  to  occupy  my  house  without  paying  rent, 
and  there's  no  taking  the  law  of  a  dead  man.  The 
people  pretend  to  hear  at  night  the  clinking  of  gold 
all  night  long  in  the  chamber  where  the  old  priest 
slept,  as  if  he  were  counting  over  his  money,  and 
sometimes  a  groaning  and  moaning  about  the  court. 
Whether  true  or  false,  these  stories  have  brought  a 
bad  name  on  my  house,  and  not  a  tenant  will  re- 
main in  it." 

"  Enough,"  said  the  mason,  sturdily — "  Let  me 
live  in  your  house  rent  free  until  some  better  te- 
nant presents,  and  I  will  engage  to  put  it  in  repair 
and  quiet  the  troubled  spirits  that  disturb  it.  I  am 
a  good  Christian  and  a  poor  man,  and  am  not  to  be 
daunted  by  the  devil  himself,  even  though  he  come 
in  the  shape  of  a  big  bag  of  money." 

The  ofler  of  the  honest  mason  was  gladly  accept- 
ed ;  he  moved  with  liis  family  into  the  house,  and 


THE  ?RE-MIU>r.  261 

fiilfilled  all  his  engagements.  By  little  and  little  he 
restored  it  ro  its  former  state.  I'he  clinking  of  gold 
■was  no  longer  heard  at  night  in  the  chamber  of  the 
defunct  priest,  but  began  to  be  heard  by  day  in  the 
pocket  of  the  Uving  mason.  In  a  word,  he  increas- 
ed rapidly  in  wealth,  to  the  admiration  of  all  his 
neighbours,  and  became  one  of  the  richest  men  in 
Granada.  He  gave  large  sums  to  the  church,  by 
way,  no  doubt,  of  satisfying  his  conscience,  and 
never  revealed  the  secret  of  the  wealth  until  on  his 
death-bed,  to  his  son  and  heir.  irvixg. 


THE  DYIXG  GIRL'S  LAMENT. 

Wax  does  my  mother  steal  away 

To  hide  her  strugghng  tears'? 
Her  trembling  touch  betrays  uncheck'd 

The  secret  of  her  fears  ; 
My  father  gazes  on  my  face 

With  yearning,  earnest  eye  ; — 
And  yet,  there  's  none  among  them  all, 

To  tell  me  I  must  die ! 

My  little  sisters  press  around 

My  sleepless  couch,  and  bring 
With  eager  hands,  their  garden  gift, 

The  first  sweet  buds  of  spring ! 
I  wish  they'd  lay  me  where  those  flowers 

Might  lure  them  to  my  bed. 
When  other  springs  and  summers  bloom, 

And  /  am  with  the  dead. 

The  sunshine  quivers  on  my  cheek, 

Glitt'ring,  and  gay,  and  fair. 
As  if  it  knew  my  hand  too  weak 

To  shade  me  from  its  glare  ! 


THE  PIIEMIUM. 

How  soon  'twill  fall  unheeded  on 
This  death-dew'd  glassy  eye  ! 

Why  do  they  fear  to  tell  me  so  1 
I  knoxo  that  I  must  die ! 

The  summer  winds  breathe  softly  through 

My  lone,  still,  dreary  room, 
A  lonelier  and  a  stiller  one 

Awaits  me  in  the  tomb  ! 
But  no  soft  breeze  will  whisper  there, 

No  mother  hold  my  head  ! 
It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  be 

A  dweller  with  the  dead  ! 

Eve  after  eve  the  sun  prolongs 

His  hour  of  parting  light, 
And  seems  to  make  my  farewell  hours 

Too  fair,  too  heavenly  bright! 
I  know  the  loveliness  of  earth, 

1  love  the  evening  sky. 
And  yet  I  should  not  murmur,  if 

They  told  me  I  must  die. 

My  playmates  turn  aside  their  heads 

When  parting  with  me  now, 
The  nurse  that  tended  me  a  babe. 

Now  soothes  my  aching  brow. 
Ah!  why  are  those  sweet  cradled-hours 

Of  joy  and  fondhng  fled  1 
Not  e'en  my  parents'  kisses  now 

Could  keep  me  from  the  dead  ! 

Our  pastor  kneels  beside  me  oft, 

And  talks  to  me  of  heaven  ; 
But  with  a  holier  vision  still. 

My  soul  in  dreams  hath  striven : 


THE  PRExir:?r.  263 

Fve  seen  a  beckoning  hand  that  call'J 

My  faltering  steps  en  high 
I've  heard  a  voice  that,  trumpet-tongued, 

Bade  me  prepare  to  die  ! 

MRS.  C.  GORE. 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEAD. 

If  the  reputation  of  the  living  w^ere  the  only 
fiource  from  which  the  honour  of  our  race  is  derived, 
the  death  of  an  emment  man  would  be  a  subject  of 
immitigable  grief.  It  is  the  lot  of  few  to  attain 
great  distinction,  before  death  has  placed  them 
above  the  distorting  medium,  through  which  men 
are  seen  by  their  contemporaries.  It  is  the  lot  of 
still  fewer  to  attain  it  by  qualities  which  exalt  the 
character  of  our  species.  Envy  denies  the  capacity 
of  some,  slander  stigmatizes  the  principles  of  others, 
fashion  gives  an  occasional  currency  to  false  preten- 
sions, and  the  men  by  whom  the  age  is  hereafter  to 
be  known,  are  often  too  much  in  advance  of  it  to  be 
discernible  by  the  common  eye.  All  these  causes 
combine  to  reduce  the  stock  of  living  reputation  as 
much  below  the  real  merits  of  the  age,  as  it  is  be- 
low the  proper  dignity  of  man  ;  and  he  who  should 
wish  to  elevate  his  spirit  by  great  examples  of  wis- 
dom, of  genius,  and  of  patriotism,  if  he  could  not 
derive  them  from  the  illustrious  dead,  would  have 
better  reason  than  the  son  of  Philip  to  weep  at  the 
limits  which  confined  him.  To  part  with  the  great 
and  good  from  a  world  which  thus  wants  them,  and 
not  to  receive  thereafter  the  refreshing  influence  of 
their  purified  and  exalted  fame,  would  be  to  make 
death  almost  the  master  of  our  virtue,  as  he  appears 
to  be  of  our  perishable  bodies. 


264  TUS    FBBMIUM. 

The  living  and  the  dead  are,  however,  but  one 
family,  and  the  moral  and  intellectual  affluence  of 
those  who  have  gone  before,  remains  to  enrich  their 
posterity.  The  great  fountain  of  human  character 
lies  beyond  the  confines  of  life,  where  the  passions 
cannot  invade  it.  It  is  in  that  region,  that  among 
innumerable  proofs  of  man's  nothingness,  are  pre- 
served the  records  of  liis  immortal  descent  and  des- 
tiny. It  is  there  the  spirits  of  all  ages,  after  their 
sun  is  set,  are  gathered  into  one  firmament,  to  shed 
their  unquenchable  light  upon  us.  It  is  in  the  great 
assembly  of  the  dead,  that  the  philosopher  and  the 
patriot,  who  have  passed  from  hfe,  complete  their 
benefaction  to  mankind,  by  becoming  imperishable 
examples  of  virtue. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  those  private  affections  which 
cannot  choose  but  shrink  from  the  inroads  of  death, 
there  is  no  grief  then  for  the  departure  of  the  emi- 
nently good  and  wise.  No  tears  but  those  of  grati- 
tude should  fall  into  the  graves  of  such  as  are  gather- 
ed in  honour  to  their  forefathers.  By  their  now  un- 
envied  virtues  and  talents,  they  have  become  a  new 
possession  to  their  posterity,  and  when  we  comme- 
morate them,  and  pay  the  debt  which  is  their  due, 
we  increase  and  confirm  our  own  inheritance. 


BELSHAZZAR. 

HocB  of  an  empire's  overthrow  ! 

The  princes  from  the  feast  were  gone — 
The  idle  flame  was  burning  low — 

'Twas  midnight  upon  Babylon. 

That  night  the  feast  was  wild  and  high ; 
That  night  was  Zion's  God  profaned ; 


THE  ra£MIU5I. 

The  seal  was  set  to  blasphemy  ; 

The  last  deep  cup  of  wrath  was  drained. 

'Mid  jewelled  roof  and  silken  pall, 

Belshazzar  on  his  couch  was  flung ; — 

A  burst  of  thunder  shook  the  hall — 
He  heard — but  'twas  no  mortal  tongue ! 

"  King  of  the  east !  the  trumpet  calls, 
That  calls  thee  to  a  tyrant's  grave  ; 

A  curse  is  on  thy  palace  walls — 
A  curse  is  on  thy  guardian  wave. 

"A  surge  is  in  Euphrates  bed, 
That  never  fiU'd  its  bed  before  ; — 

A  surge  that,  e'er  the  morn  be  red, 

Shall  load  with  death  its  haughty  shore. 

"  Behold  a  tide  of  Persian  steel — 
A  torrent  of  the  Median  car  ; — 

Like  flame  their  gory  banners  wheel ; — 
Rise,  king,  and  arm  thee  for  the  war !" 

Belshazzar  gazed — the  voice  was  past — 
The  lofty  chamber  fiU'd  with  gloom — 

But  echoed  on  the  sudden  blast 
The  rushing  of  a  mighty  plume. 

He  listened — all  again  was  still ; 

He  heard  no  clarion's  iron  clang ; 
He  heard  the  fountain's  gushing  rill — 

The  breeze  that  through  the  roses  sang. 

He  slept ; — in  sleep  wild  murmurs  came — 
A  visioned  splendour  fired  the  sky  ; 

He  heard  Belshazzar's  taunted  name — 
He  heard  again  the  prophet  cry — 


265 


266  THE  PHEMIlT?.r. 

"  Sleep,  Sultan  !  'tis  thy  final  sleep  ; 

Or  wake,  or  sleep  the  guilty  dies ; 
The  wrongs  of  those  who  watch  and  weep, 

Around  thee  and  thy  nation,  rise." 

He  started: — 'mid  the  battle's  yell, 
•    He  saw  the  Persian  rushing  on  ; — - 
He  saw  the  flames  around  him  swell ; 
Thou'rt  ashes,  King  of  Babylon  ! 


ON  VANITY. 


Those  vices  are  not  always  the  most  dangerous 
which  are  the  most  rapid  of  operation ;  but  as  effects 
strike  the  senses  most,  where  they  follow  imme- 
diately from  their  causes,  such  vices  have  been  more 
accurately  observed,  and  more  clearly  explained, 
than  any  others.  In  the  meantime,  there  are  many 
habits  of  thought  little  noticed,  and  little  feared, 
which  pollute,  no  less  effectually,  the  springs  of  the 
heart,  and  destroy  the  purity  of  reUgion.  We  shud- 
der at  falsehood,  at  ingratitude,  at  neglect  of  serious 
duties,  at  hardness  of  heart ;  we  look  at  vanity  with 
a  smile  of  contempt — at  the  vanity  of  the  young, 
and  gay,  with  a  smile  of  indulgence  :  it  seems,  to 
our  improvident  view,  a  harmless  plant,  that  has 
got  up  in  the  luxuriant  soil  of  youth,  and  will  quick- 
ly wither  away  in  more  mature  age ;  in  the  mean- 
time, up  it  climbs,  and  strangles  in  its  grasp  the 
towering  and  lordly  passions  of  the  soul. 

I  mean  by  vanity,  the  excessive  love  of  praise  ; 
and  I  call  it  excessive,  whenever  it  becomes  a  mo- 
tive to  action ;  for  to  make  men  indifferent  to  the 
praise  of  their  fellow-creatures,  as  a  consequence  of 
their  actions,  is  not,  that  I  know  of,  any  where  en- 


THE  PUEMICM.  267 

joined  by  our  sacred  religion,  nor  would  it  be  wise, 
if  it  were  possible. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  this  versatile  passion  of 
vanity,  in  all  the  forms  under  which  it  loves  to  ex- 
ist ;  every  shape,  every  colour,  every  a-ttitude  be- 
come it  alike ;  sometimes  it  is  a  virtue,  sometimes 
a  decency,  and  sometimes  a  vice  ;  it  gives  birth  to 
the  man  of  refined  manners,  the  profligate,  the  saint, 
and  the  hero ;  it  plays  with  the  toy  of  the  child  ;  it 
totters  on  the  crutch  of  age ;  it  lingers  on  the  bed 
of  sickness,  and  gathers  up  its  last  strength  to  die 
with  decent  effect  amidst  the  plaudits  of  the  world. 
The  fall  of  great  cities,  the  waste  of  beautiful  pro- 
vinces, the  captivity  of  nations,  the  groans  and 
bleedings  of  the  earth — whence  have  they  sprung "? 
That  folly  might  worship,  that  fame  might  record, 
that  the  world  might  look  on,  and  wonder ;  for 
these  feelings  men  have  imbittered  life,  accelerated 
death,  and  abjured  eternity.  But  with  these  vast 
scenes,  I  have  nothing  to  do  here ;  to  common  life, 
and  ordinary  occasions,  I  must  at  present  confine 
myself. 

One  of  the  gi-eat  evils  of  vanity  is.  that  it  induces 
hardness  of  heart.  Compassion  must  have  exercise, 
or  it  will  cease  to  exist ;  the  mind  cannot  be  en- 
grossed at  once  by  two  opposite  systems  of  hopes, 
and  fears.  If  we  are  occupied  by  the  consideration 
of  what  the  world  vrill  think  on  every  occasion, 
there  is  no  leisure  for  reflection  on  those  solemn 
duties  which  we  owe  to  our  fellow-creatures;  duties 
which  God  has  not  trusted  to  reason  only,  but  to- 
wards which  he  has  warned  us  by  compassion,  and 
inward  feeling.  These  feelings  soon  cease  to  ad- 
monish, when  they  are  unheeded,  and  the  voice  of 
humanity,  when  it  has  often  spoke  in  vain,  speaks 
no  more.     Soon  the  cry  of  him  who  wants  bread 


268  TH£  PREMIUM. 

will  come  up  no  longer  to  your  ear ;  soon  you  will 
turn  from  the  sad  aspect  of  age,  and  your  heart  will 
become  shut  to  the  miseries  of  man,  never  again  to 
be  opened. 

The  havock  which  vanity  makes  on  the  social 
feelings  is  as  conspicuous  as  that  which  it  exercises 
on  those  of  compassion.  One  of  the  most  painful 
symptoms  it  produces,  is  an  impatience  of  home. 
The  vain  man  has  no  new  triumphs  to  make  over 
his  family,  or  his  kindred  ;  their  society  becomes 
tedious  and  insupportable  to  him ;  he  flies  to  every 
public  circle  for  relief,  where  the  hopes  of  being  ad- 
mired lightens  up  in  him  that  gaiety  which  never 
beams  on  those  who  ought  to  be  the  nearest  to  his 
heart.  Thus  it  is,  that  the  lives  of  many  in  great 
cities  are  passed  in  crowds,  and  frittered  away  in  a 
constant  recurrence  of  the  same  frivolous  amuse- 
ments ;  after  the  poignant  gratifications  of  vanity, 
every  other  species  of  sensation  becomes  insipid : 
the  mind  shrinks  from  duty,  and  from  improvement, 
and  the  whole  character  becomes  trifling,  and  de- 
graded. It  is  easy  to  misrepresent  these  observa- 
tions, by  supposing  them  to  be  levelled  against 
pleasure  and  amusement  in  general ;  whereas,  it  is 
not  only  lawful  to  enjoy  the  innocent  pleasures  of 
society  in  moderation ;  but  it  is  unwise  not  to  enjoy 
them.  That  pleasure  only  is  to  be  censured  which 
becomes  a  business,  and  corrupts  the  heart  instead 
of  exhilarating  the  spirits.  Dignity  of  character  is 
a  very  subtle  thing,  and,  as  the  guardian  of  many 
virtues,  should  be  carefully  preserved ;  but  if  there 
be  any  fault,  which  extinguishes  amiable  and  pious 
sentiment,  hardens  the  heart,  destroys  delicacy  of 
manners,  and  wipes  off  all  bloom  and  freshness  from 
the  mind,  it  is  constant,  and  eternal  dissipation.  The 
very  essence  of  pleasure  is  rarity ;  admiration,  too 


THE  PREMtrM.  269 

eagerly  pursued,  leads  infallibly  to  contempt ;  and 
the  qualities  which  produce  the  greatest  effect,  are 
always  those  of  which  the  possessor  is  the  most 
profoundly  ignorant. 

Vanity  is  not  only  a  dangerous  passion,  but  it  is 
an  absurd  passion  ;  as  it  does  not  in  general  attain 
the  end  it  proposes  to  itself.  The  way  to  gain 
■wealth  is  to  seek  it.  Learning  is  only  acquired  by 
constant  and  eager  labour ;  but  to  gain  praise,  you 
must  be  indifferent  to  it ;  for  the  rule  of  commenda- 
tion is,  and  ought  to  be,  the  very  reverse  of  the  rule 
of  charity  ;  to  give  most  to  those  who  want  it  least, 
and  thus  by  ill  success  to  teach  a  better  motive  to 
action.  Vanity  is  every  day  detected  and  disgraced ; 
we  know  men  who  beUeve  themselves  to  be  objects 
of  universal  admiration,  while,  in  fact,  they  are  ob- 
jects of  universal  contempt ;  we  see  how  difficult  it 
is  to  conceal  the  passion,  or  prevent  the  ridicule 
consequent  upon  it ;  yet  we  are  vain,  and  believe  that 
acute  malice  will  be  blind  for  us  alone. 

This  love  of  praise,  so  strongly  intixed  in  our  na- 
ture, it  is  rather  our  duty  to  direct,  than  to  extin- 
guish. The  excellence  which  requires  neither  to  be 
encouraged  nor  corrected,  exists  not  in  the  world ; 
the  commendation,  or  censure  of  enlightened  men,  is, 
perhaps,  the  best  test  here  below,  of  the  purity  and 
wisdom  of  what  we  intend,  and  the  propriety  and 
success  of  what  we  do ;  and  a  wise  man  will  al- 
ways make  this  use  of  the  decisions  of  the  world  ; 
when  he  is  blamed,  he  will  listen  with  sacred  mo- 
desty to  the  collected  wisdom  of  many  men,  he  will 
measure  back  his  footsteps  on  the  path  of  Ufe,  and 
whichever  way  he  decides,  he  will  know,  that  he 
has  either  obtained  success,  o^-  deserved  it ;  he  will 
receive  praise  as  a  probable,  not  as  a  certain  evi- 
dence that  he  is  right ;  nay,  he  will  do  more,  he 


270  THE  PHEMIUM. 

will  rejoice  in  tJie  approbation  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures ;  every  feeling  of  his  heart  will  expand  ;  it 
will  cheer  him  in  his  long  struggle,  and  dissipate 
that  melanchcly  which  the  best  sometirues  feel  at 
the  triumph  of  folly,  and  tlie  fortune  of  vice. 

Be  it  your  care  to  watch  its  baneful  influence, 
and  to  live  from  nobler  motives.  If  you  wish  for 
the  praise  of  man,  cease  to  pursue  it ;  live  that  life 
which,  sooner  or  later,  leads  to  honour  in  this  world, 
and  to  eternity  in  the  next ;  be  just,  be  modest,  be 
charitable ;  love  dearly  your  fellow-creatures,  and 
number  your  days  by  the  miseries  you  have  lessen- 
ed, and  the  blessings  you  have  diffused.  Study  your 
own  heart  with  the  patience  of  a  Christian  ;  coolly 
mark,  and  steadily  resist  the  tendency  to  wrong. 
Let  wisdom  ever  increase  with  decay  ;  and  the  soul 
gather  new  light  as  its  covering  crumbles  into  dust; 
this  is  the  life  which  will  more  eifectually  secure  to 
you  the  sweets  of  praise,  than  all  the  toils,  and  all 
the  vexations  of  vanity ;  y^-JU  will  reign  in  the  hearts 
of  men,  and  move  amongst  them,  like  the  angel  of 
wisdom  and  peace ;  and  when,  in  the  fulness  of  years, 
and  in  the  fulness  of  honours,  you  rest  for  the  short 
sabbath  of  the  tomb,  the  cold,  dull  earth  which  falls 
upon  your  bier,  shall  be  a  cruel  sound  to  the  wretch- 
ed, and  the  good ;  a  whole  city  shall  gather  around 
your  grave,  and  weep  over  their  guide,  their  father, 
and  their  friend.  Sydney  sarixa. 


THE  SABBATH  BELL. 

Pilgrim,  that  hast  meekly  home 
All  the  cold  world's  bitter  scorn, 
Journeying  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
Till  the  promised  land  appears, 


THE  PREMlUJr.  271 

Where  the  pure  in  heart  shall  dwell — 
Thou  dost  bless  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

Idler,  following  fashion's  toys, 
Seeking,  'mid  its  empty  joys, 
Pleasure  that  must  end  in  pain ; 
Sunshine  that  will  turn  to  rain  ; 
What  does  whisp'ring  conscience  tell, 
When  thou  hear'st  the  Sabbath  bell  1 

Poet,  dreaming  o'er  thy  lyre, 
Wasting  health  and  youthful  fire ; 
Wooing  still  the  phantom  fame, 
For,  at  best,  a  fleeting  name  ; 
Burst  the  chains  of  Fancy's  spell- 
Listen  ! — 'tis  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

Monarch,  on  thy  regal  throne ; 
Ruler,  whom  the  nations  own ; 
Captive,  at  thy  prison  grate, 
Sad  in  heart  and  desolate  ; 
Bid  earth's  mijior  cares  farewell- 
Hark  !  it  is  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

Statesman,  toiling  in  the  mart, 
Where  Ambition  plays  his  part; 
Peasant,  bronzing  'neath  the  sun, 
Till  thy  six  days'  work  are  done; 
Ev'ry  thought  of  bus'ness  quell, 
When  ye  hear  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

Maiden,  with  thy  brow  so  fair, 
Blushing  cheek,  and  shining  hair ; 
Child,  with  bright  and  laughing  eye, 
Chasing  the  wing'd  butterfly  ; 
Hasten,  when  o'er  vale  and  dell, 
Sounds  the  gathering  Sabbath  bell ! 


373  THE  PREMIUM. 

Trav'ler,  thou  whom  gain  or  taste, 
Speedeth  through  earth's  weary  waste  ; 
Wand'rer  from  thy  native  land, 
Rest  thy  steed  and  slack  thy  hand, 
When  the  seventh  day's  sun-beams  tell : 
There  they  wake  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

Soldier,  who,  on  battle-plain, 
Soon  may 'st  mingle  with  the  slain ; 
Sailor,  on  the  dark  blue  sea 
As  thy  bark  rides  gallantly  ; 
Prayer  and  praise  become  ye  well, 
Though  ye  hear  no  Sabbath  bell ! 

Mother,  that  with  tearful  eye 
Stand'st  to  watch  thy  first-bom  die, 
Bending  o'er  his  cradle-bed, 
Till  the  last  pure  breath  has  fled  ; 
What  to  thee  of  hope  can  tell 
Like  the  solemn  Sabbath  bell ! 

"  Mourner,"  thus  it  seems  to  say  ; 
"  Weeping  o'er  this  fragile  clay, 
Lift  from  earth  thy  streaming  eyes, 
Seek  thy  treasure  in  the  skies  ; 
Where  the  strains  of  angels  swell 
One  eternal  Sabbath  bell !" 

MBS.  CORNWALL  BAROJf  WILS03T. 


THE  DANGERS  OF  A  MILITARY  SPIRIT. 

The  dangers  which  our  country  may  apprehend 
from  the  encouragement  of  a  military  spirit  in  our 
people,  have  been  eloquently  portrayed.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly true  that  a  strong  disposition  of  this  sort 
has  been  manifested  and  was  rapidly  rising,  in  the 


THE  PREMIUM.  273 

people  of  the  United  States ;  and  a  greater  evil  could 
hardly  befall  us  than  the  consummation  of  its  ascen- 
dency. There  is  something  so  infatuating  in  the  pomp 
and  triumphs  of  war,  that  a  young  and  brave  people, 
who  have  known  but  little  of  its  destructive  miseries, 
may  require  to  be  guarded  against  falling  into  the 
snare,  and  led  to  direct  their  energies  to  other  and 
better  objects.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that,  in  the 
various  ways  in  which  the  genius  and  powers  of  men 
display  themselves,  the  military  course  is  the  only  one 
eminently  dangerous  to  his  species.  Genius,  in  eveiy 
other  department,  how^ever  dazzling  and  powerful, 
is  never  hurtful,  and  is  generally  a  blessing  to  the 
vporld.  The  stupendous  genius  of  Newton  elevated 
the  diignity  of  man,  and  brought  him  nearer  to  his 
God  ;  it  gave  him  a  path  to  walk  in  the  firmament, 
and  knowledge  to  hold  converse  with  the  stars. 
The  erratic  comet  cannot  elude  his  vigilance  ;  nor 
the  powerful  sun  disappoint  his  calculations.  Yet 
this  genius,  so  mighty  in  the  production  of  good, 
was  harmless  of  evil  as  a  child  It  never  inflicted 
injury  or  pain  on  any  thing  that  Uves  or  feels. 
Shakspeare  prepared  an  inexhaustible  feast  of  in- 
struction and  delight,  for  his  own  age,  and  the  ages 
to  come  ;  but  he  brought  no  tears  into  the  world, 
but  those  of  fictitious  wo,  which  the  other  end  of 
his  wand  was  always  ready  to  cure.  It  is  military 
genius  alone,  that  must  be  nourished  with  blood, 
and  can  find  employment  only  in  inflicting  misery 
and  death  upon  man.  hopkixsox. 


874  THE  phemicm. 

CEMETERIES  AND  RITES  OF  BURIAL  IN  TURKEY 
Ix  Turkey,  the  places  and  rites  of  sepulture  have 
an  affecting  prominence  and  solemnity  connected 
with  them,  scarcely  equalled  in  Christendom.  In 
general,  the  dead  are  interred  in  veiy  spacious  ce- 
meteries, contiguous  to  towns  and  villages.  There 
appear  to  be  two  cities  placed  side  by  side — the  city 
of  the  Uving,  and  the  city  of  the  dead  ;  and  the  popu- 
lation of  the  city  of  the  dead  far  exceeds  that  of  the 
city  of  the  living.  The  Jews  have  covered  the  face 
of  a  very  large  hill,  rising  above  the  city  of  Smyrna, 
with  the  stones  which  note  the  place  where  the 
earthly  remains  of  their  deceased  countrjunen  are 
deposited.  There  is  a  desolation  and  forlorn  appear- 
ance presented  by  this  spot,  unsheltered  as  it  is 
by  a  single  tree,  which  is  in  striking  contrast  with 
the  thick  shade  and  beautiful  order  of  the  Turkish 
places  of  burial.  It  shows  that,  even  in  death,  the 
Jew  is  not  exempt  from  the  contempt  and  oppression 
of  which  he  could  not  divest  liimself  whilst  living. 

The  interment  of  a  corpse  according  to  the  ritual 
of  the  English  church  had  always,  to  my  mind,  a 
striking  solemnity  in  Turkey.  On  passing  through 
the  streets  to  the  place  of  burial,  innumerable  eyes 
of  strangers,  of  a  diversity  of  nations,  gaze  fixedly 
upon  the  scene.  All  is  still.  The  pursuits  of  busi- 
ness are  suspended ;  a  lucid  interval  appears  to  be 
imparted  to  the  delirium  of  folly  and  sin  :  and,  when 
the  mutHed  drum,  and  martial  step,  which  accompa 
ny  to  the  dust  the  body  of  an  English  sailor,  add 
their  interest  to  the  procession,  the  feelings  of  spec 
tators  are  wrought  up  to  no  common  pitch  of  ex 
citeraent.  During  the  reading  of  the  burial  service, 
more  especially  at  Constantinople,  where  the  Eng- 
lish burial-ground  is  in  a  place  exceedingly  public, 


TH£  PBEMIUM.  275 

e  solemn  attention  arrests  all  present,  even  though 
to  few  the  language  is  mtelUgible.  Turks,  Greeks, 
Armenians,  Jews,  and  Christians,  appear  to  have 
forgotten  their  animosities,  and,  at  the  grave  of  death, 
to  have  recollected  that  a  common  fate  awaits  them 
all.  However  distinct  they  may  be  from  each  otlier 
in  the  enjoyments  and  attainments  of  life,  and,  how- 
ever they  may  differ  in  what  is  much  more  momen- 
tous— the  prospects  of  immortality — still  is  there 
an  awful  uniformity,  which  unites  in  one  insepara- 
ble communion  the  men  of  all  ranks,  of  jiU  ages,  and 
of  all  religions  : — Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shall 
thou  return. 

Very  frequently,  whilst  you  are  silently  engaged 
in  your  apartment,  the  stillness  of  a  Turkish  town, 
where  no  rumbling  of  wheels  is  ever  heard,  is  inter- 
rupted by  the  distant  sound  of  the  funeral  chant  of 
the  Greek  priests.  As  the  voices  grow  more  loud, 
you  hasten  to  the  window  to  behold  the  procession. 
The  priests  move  first,  bearing  their  burning  tapers, 
and,  by  their  dark  and  flowing  robes,  give  an  idea 
of  mourning  in  harmony  with  the  occasion.  The 
corpse  is  always  exhibited  to  full  view.  It  is  fJaced 
upon  a  bier,  which  is  borne  aloft  upon  the  shoulders, 
and  is  dressed  in  the  best  and  gayest  garments  pos- 
sessed by  the  deceased.  I  have  sometimes  seen  a 
young  female,  who  had  departed  in  the  bloom  of 
life  and  beauty,  adorned  rather  as  a  bride  to  meet 
the  bridegroom,  than  as  one  who  was  to  be  the  te- 
nant of  the  chamlier  of  corruption.  The  young  man 
at  Nain,  who  was  restored  to  life  by  the  command 
of  our  Saviour,  was  doubtless  carried  on  a  bier  of 
this  kind.  When  our  Lord  intimated  the  design  of 
interposing  in  lus  favour,  they  that  bare  him  stood 
still.  And"  when  the  miraculous  energy  was  exerted, 
he  that  was  dead  sat  up,  and  began  to  speak.     I 


276  THE    PREMIUM. 

believe  it  is  unusual  for  any  of  the  Orientals  to  be 
buried  in  coffins. 

The  closing  part  of  the  Greek  burial  service,  com- 
mencing vrith  the  words,  "  Come  and  impart  the  last 
embrace,"  is  very  affecting.  The  friends  of  the  de- 
parted press  fonvard  from  every  part  of  the  church, 
and  kiss  his  cold  and  pallid  lips,  and  weep  over  him. 
It  is  considered  a  very  pecuhar  mark  of  disrespect  to 
neglect  tliis  last  office  of  affection. 

HAHTLET. 


THE  MOTHER'S  INJUNCTION.  ON  PRESENTING 
HER  SON  WITH  A  BIBLE. 

Remembek,  love,  who  gave  thee  this, 

When  other  days  shall  come  : 
When  she,  who  had  thy  earliest  kiss. 

Sleeps  in  her  narrow  home. 
Remember  'twas  a  mother  gave 
The  gift  to  one  she'd  die  to  save. 

That  mother  sought  a  pledge  of  love, 

The  holiest  for  her  son  ; 
And  from  the  gifts  of  God  above, 

She  chose  a  goodly  one. 
She  chose,  for  her  beloved  boy, 
The  source  of  light,  and  life,  and  joy. 

And  bade  him  keep  the  gift, — that,  when 

The  parting  hour  would  come, 
They  might  have  hope  to  meet  again. 

In  an  eternal  home. 
She  said  his  faith  in  that  would  be 
Sweet  incense  to  her  memory. 

And  should  the  scoffer  in  his  pride. 
Laugh  that  fond  faith  to  scorn. 


THE    PUEMICM.  277 

And  bid  him  cast  the  pledge  aside, 
That  he  from  youth  had  borne  ; 
She  bade  him  pause,  and  ask  his  breast, 
If  he,  or  she,  had  loved  him  best  1 

A  parent's  blessing  on  her  son 

Goes  with  this  holy  thing  ; 
The  love  that  would  retain  the  one 

Must  to  the  other  cling. 
Remember !  'tis  no  idle  toy, 
A  mother's  gift — Remember,  boy  ! 

KEXJTEDT. 


HISTORY. 

The  perfect  historian  is  he  in  whose  work  the 
character  and  spirit  of  an  age  is  exhibited  in  minia- 
ture. He  relates  no  fact,  he  attributes  no  expres- 
sion to  his  characters  which  is  not  authenticated  by 
sufficient  testimony.  But  by  judicious  selection, 
rejection,  and  arrangement,  he  gives  to  truth  those 
attractions  which  have  been  usurped  by  fiction.  In 
his  narrative  a  due  subordination  is  observed ;  some 
transactions  are  prominent,  others  retire.  But  the 
scale  on  which  he  represents  them,  is  increased  or 
diminished,  not  according  to  the  dignity  of  the  per- 
sons concerned  in  them,  but  according  to  the  degree 
in  which  they  elucidate  the  condition  of  society  and 
the  nature  of  man.  He  shows  us  the  court,  the  camp, 
and  the  senate.  But  he  shows  us  also  the  nation. 
He  considers  no  anecdote,  no  peculiarity  of  manner, 
no  famiUar  saying,  as  too  insignificant  for  his  notice, 
which  is  not  too  insignificant  to  illustrate  the  opera- 
tions of  laws,  of  religion,  and  of  education,  and  to 
mark  the  progress  of  the  human  mind.  Men  will 
not  merely  be  described,  but  will  be  made  intimate- 


278  THE  pnE3iiC3r. 

ly  known  to  us.  The  changes  of  manners  will  be 
indicated,  not  merely  by  a  few  general  plirases,  or 
a  few  extracts  from  statistical  documents,  but  by  ap- 
propriate images  presented  in  every  line. 

If  a  man,  such  as  we  are  supposing,  should  write 
the  history  of  England,  he  would  assuredly  not  omit 
the  battles,  the  sieges,  the  negotiations,  the  seditions, 
the  ministerial  changes.  But  with  these  he  would 
intersperse  the  details  which  are  the  charm  of  his- 
torical romances.  At  Lincoln  Cathedral  there  is  a 
beautiful  painted  window,  which  was  made  by  an 
apprentice,  out  of  the  pieces  of  glass  which  had  been 
rejected  by  his  master.  It  is  so  far  superior  to  every 
other  in  the  church,  that,  according  to  tradition,  the 
vanquished  artist  killed  himself  from  mortification. 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the  same  manner,  has  used 
those  fragments  of  truth  which  historians  have 
scornfully  thrown  behind  them,  in  a  manner  which 
may  well  excite  their  envy.  He  has  constructed 
out  of  their  gleanings,  works  which,  even  con- 
sidered as  histories,  are  scarcely  less  valuable  than 
theirs.  But  a  truly  great  historian  would  reclaim 
those  materials  which  the  novelist  has  appropriated. 
The  history  of  the  government,  and  the  history  of 
the  people,  would  be  exhibited  in  that  mode  in 
which  alone  they  can  be  exhibited  justly,  in  insepa- 
rable conjunction  and  intermixture.  We  should  not 
then  have  to  look  for  the  wars  and  votes  of  the 
Puritans  in  Clarendon,  and  for  their  phraseology  in 
Old  Mortality ;  for  one  half  of  King  James  in 
Hume,  and  for  the  other  half  in  the  Fortunes  of 
Nigel. 

The  early  part  of  our  imaginary  history,  would 
be  rich  with  colouring  from  romance,  ballad,  and 
chronicle.  We  should  find  ourselves  in  the  com- 
pany of  knights  such  as  those  of  Froissart,  and  of 


TIIK  PREMIUM.  279 

pilgrims  such  as  those  who  rode  with  Chaucer  from 
the  Tabard.  Society  would  be  shown  from  the  high- 
est to  the  lowest, — from  the  royal  cloth  of  state  to 
the  den  of  the  outlaw  ;  from  the  throne  of  the  Le- 
gate, to  the  chimney-comer  where  the  begging  friar 
regaled  himself.  Palmers,  minstrels,  crusaders, — 
the  stately  monastery,  with  the  good  cheer  in  its 
refectory,  and  the  high  mass  in  its  chapel, — the  ma- 
nor house,  with  its  hunting  and  hawking, — the 
tournament,  with  the  heralds  and  ladies,  the  trum- 
pets and  the  cloth  of  gold, — would  give  truth  and 
life  to  the  representation.  We  should  perceive,  in 
a  thousand  slight  touches,  the  importance  of  the 
privileged  burgher,  and  the  fierce  and  haughty  spirit 
which  swelled  under  the  collar  of  the  degraded  vil- 
lain. The  revival  of  letters  would  not  merely  be 
described  in  a  few  magnificent  periods.  V/e  should 
discern,  in  innumerable  particulars,  the  fermentation 
of  mind,  the  eager  appetite  for  knowledge,  which 
distinguished  the  sixteenth  from  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. In  the  reformation  we  should  see,  not  merely 
a  schism  which  changed  the  ecclesiastical  constitu- 
tion of  England,  and  the  mutual  relations  of  Euro- 
pean powers,  but  a  moral  war  which  raged  in  every 
family,  which  set  the  father  against  the  son,  and 
the  son  against  the  father,  the  mother  against  the 
daughter,  and  the  daughter  against  the  mother. 
Henry  would  be  painted  with  the  skill  of  Tacitus. 
We  should  have  the  change  of  his  character  from 
his  profuse  and  joyous  youth,  to  his  savage  and 
imperious  old  age.  We  should  perceive  the  gradual 
^progress  of  selfish  and  tyrannical  passions,  in  a 
mind  not  naturally  insensible  or  ungenerous;  and 
to  the  last  we  should  detect  some  remains  of  that 
open  and  noble  temper  which  endeared  him  to  a 
people  whom   he   oppressed,  struggling  with  the 


280  THE  PREMIUM. 

hardness  of  despotism,  and  the  irritabiUty  of  disease. 
We  should  see  Elizabeth  in  all  her  weakness,  and 
in  all  her  strength,  surrounded  by  the  handsome  fa- 
vourites whom  she  never  trusted,  and  the  wise  old 
statesmen,  whom  she  never  dismissed,  uniting  in 
herself  the  most  contradictory  qualities  of  both  her 
parents, — the  coquetry,  the  caprice,  the  petty  malice 
of  Anne, — the  haughty  and  resolute  spirit  of  Henry. 
We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that  a  great  artist 
might  produce  a  portrait  of  this  remarkable  woman, 
at  least  as  striking  as  that  in  the  novel  of  Kenil- 
worth,  without  employing  a  single  trait  not  authen- 
ticated by  ample  testimony.  In  the  meantime,  we 
should  see  arts  cultivated,  wealth  accumulated,  the 
conveniences  of  life  improved.  We  should  see  the 
keeps,  where  nobles,  insecure  themselves,  spread 
insecurity  around  them,  graduall}-  giving  place  to 
the  halls  of  peaceful  opulence,  to  the  oriels  of  Lon- 
gleat,  and  the  stately  pinnacles  of  Burleigh.  We 
should  see  towns  extended,  deserts  cultivated,  the 
hamlets  of  fishermen  turned  into  wealthy  havens, 
the  meal  of  the  peasant  improved,  and  his  hut  more 
commodiously  furnished.  We  should  see  those 
opinions  and  feeUngs  which  produced  the  great 
struggle  against  the  house  of  Stuart  slowly  growing 
up  in  the  bosom  of  private  families,  before  they 
manifested  themselves  in  ParUamentary  debates. 
Then  would  come  the  Civil  War.  Those  skirmishes, 
on  which  Clarendon  dwells  so  minutely,  would  be 
told,  as  Thucydides  would  have  told  them,  with 
perspicuous  conciseness.  They  are  merely  connect- 
ing links.  But  the  great  characteristics  of  the  age, 
the  loyal  enthusiasm  of  the  brave  English  gentry, 
the  fierce  licentiousness  of  the  swearing,  dicing, 
drunken  reprobates,  whose  excesses  disgraced  the 
royal  cause, — the  austerity  of  the  Presbyterian  Sab- 


THE  PRE311UM.  281 

baths  in  the  city,  the  extravagance  of  the  indepen- 
dent preachers  in  the  camp,  the  precise  garb,  the 
severe  countenance,  the  petty  scruples,  the  affected 
accent,  the  absurd  names  and  phrases  which  mark- 
ed the  Puritans, — the  valour,  the  policy,  the  public 
spirit,  which  lurked  beneath  these  ungraceful  dis- 
guises, the  dreams  of  the  raving  Fifth-monarchy- 
man,  the  dreams,  scarcely  less  wild,  of  the  philoso- 
phic repubUcan, — all  these  would  enter  into  repre- 
sentation, and  render  it  at  once  more  exact  and 
more  striking. 

The  instruction  derived  from  history  thus  written, 
would  be  of  a  vivid  and  practical  character.  It 
would  be  received  by  the  imagination  as  well  as  by 
the  reason.  It  would  be  not  merely  traced  on  the 
mind,  but  branded  into  it.  Many  truths,  too,  would 
be  learned,  which  can  be  learned  in  no  other  man- 
ner. As  the  history  of  states  is  generally  written, 
the  greatest  and  most  momentous  revolutions  seem 
to  come  upon  them  hke  supernatural  inflictions, 
without  warning  or  cause.  But  the  fact  is,  that 
such  revolutions  are  almost  always  the  consequence 
of  moral  changes,  which  have  gradually  passed  on 
the  mass  of  the  community,  and  which  ordinarily 
proceed  far,  before  their  progress  is  indicated  by  any 
public  measure.  An  intimate  knowledge  of  the  do- 
mestic history  of  nations,  is  therefore  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  prognosis  of  political  events.  A 
narrative,  defective  in  this  respect,  is  as  useless  as  a 
medical  treatise,  which  should  pass  by  all  symptoms 
attendant  on  the  early  stage  of  a  disease,  and  men- 
tion only  what  occurs  when  the  patient  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  remedies.  edinbukgh  review. 


282  THB  PREMIUM. 


I  SEE  TFIEE  STILL. 

"  I  rocked  her  in  her  cradle, 
And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.    She  was  the  youngest. 
What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the  charm 
Of  that  sweet  tie  ?    The  youngest  ne'er  grow  old. 
The  fond  endearments  of  our  earlier  days 
We  keep  alive  in  them,  and  when  they  die. 
Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them." 

I  SEE  thee  still ; 
Remembrance,  faithful  to  her  trust, 
Calls  thee  in  beauty  from  the  dust ; 
Thou  comest  in  the  morning  light, 
Thou'rt  with  me  through  the  gloomy  night; 
In  dreams  I  meet  thee  as  of  old. 
Then  thy  soft  arms  my  neck  enfold, 
And  thy  sweet  voice  is  in  my  ear. 
In  every  scene  to  memory  dear, 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still. 
In  every  hallowed  token  round  : 
This  little  ring  thy  finger  bound, 
This  lock  of  hair  thy  forehead  shaded. 
This  silken  chain  by  thee  was  braided, 
These  flowers,  all  withered,  now,  like  thee. 
Sweet  Sister,  thou  didst  cull  for  me ; 
This  book  was  thine,  here  thou  didst  read ; 
This  picture,  ah !  yes,  here,  indeed, 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still, 
Here  was  thy  summer  noon's  retreat. 
Here  was  thy  favourite  fireside  seat ; 
This  was  thy  chamber,  here,  each  day, 
I  sat  and  watched  thy  sad  decay, 


THE  PKEMIU.W.  283 

Here,  on  this  bed,  thou  last  didst  lie, 
Here,  on  this  pillow — thou  didst  die ; 
Dark  hour  !  once  more  its  woes  unfold ; 
And  then  I  saw  thee,  pale  and  cold, 
I  see  thee  still. 

I  see  thee  still : 
Thou  art  not  in  thy  grave  confined. 
Death  cannot  chain  the  immortal  mind  ; 
Let  earth  close  o'er  its  sacred  trust, 
But  goodness  dies  not  in  the  dust ; 
Thee,  O  my  Sister,  'tis  not  thee, 
Beneath  the  coffin's  lid  I  see  ; 
Thou  to  a  fairer  land  art  gone  ; 
There,  let  me  hope,  my  journey  done, 

To  see  thee  still. 

ANOX. 


BEAUTY  AND  FORCE  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LAN- 
GUAGE. 

Among  the  languages  of  Modern  Europe,  specious 
but  subordinate  pretensions  have  been  advanced  to 
cadence,  terseness,  or  dexterous  ambiguity  of  insi- 
nuation ;  while  the  sober  majesty  of  the  English 
tongue  stood  aloof,  and  disdained  a  competition  on 
the  ground  of  such  inferior  particularities.  I  even 
think  that  we  have  erred  with  regard  to  Greek  and 
Latin.  Our  sense  of  the  inestimable  benefit  we  have 
reaped  from  the  treasures  of  taste  and  science,  which 
they  have  handed  down  to  us,  had  led  us  into  an 
extravagance  of  reverence  for  them.  They  have 
high  intrinsic  merit,  without  doubt ;  but  it  is  a  bigot- 
ed gratitude  and  an  unweighed  admiration,  which 
induce  us  to  prostrate  the  English  tongue  before  theii 


284  THE  PREMIUM. 

altar.  Every  language  can  furnish  to  genius,  casu- 
ally, a  forcible  expression  ;  and  a  thousand  turns  of 
neatness  and  delicacy  may  be  found  in  most  of 
them  ;  but  I  will  confidently  assert,  that,  in  that 
which  should  be  the  first  object  in  all  language,  j&re- 
cision,  the  English  tongue  surpasses  them  all ;  while 
in  richness  of  colouring  and  extent  of  power,  it  is 
exceeded  by  none,  if  equalled  by  any.  What  sub- 
ject is  there  within  the  boundless  range  of  imagina- 
tion, which  some  British  author  has  not  clothed  in 
EngUsh  phrase,  with  a  nicety  of  definition,  doa.  accu- 
racy of  portraiture,  a  brilliancy  of  tint,  a  deUcacy  of 
discrimination,  and  a  force  of  expression,  which  must 
be  sterling,  because  every  other  nation  in  Europe, 
as  well  as  our  own,  admits  their  perfection  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

Are  the  fibres  of  the  heart  to  be  made  to  tremble 
with  anxiety, — to  glow  with  animation, — to  thrill 
with  horror, — to  startle  with  amaze, — to  shrink  with 
awe, — to  throb  with  pity, — or  to  vibrate  in  sympa- 
thy with  the  tone  of  pictured  love ; — know  ye  not 
the  mighty  magicians  of  our  country,  whose  potent 
spell  has  commanded,  and  continues  irresistibly  to 
command,  those  varied  impulses]  Was  it  a  puny 
engine,  a  feeble  art,  that  achieved  such  wondrous 
workings  1  What  was  the  sorcery  1  Justly  con- 
ceived collocation  of  -words  is  the  whole  secret  of 
this  witchery ;  a  charm  within  the  reach  of  any  of 
you.  Possess  yourselves  of  the  necessary  energies, 
and  be  assured  you  will  find  the  language  exube- 
rant beyond  the  demand  of  your  intensest  thought. 
How  many  positions  are  there  which  form  the  basis 
of  ever}'  day's  reflections,  the  matter  for  the  ordinary 
operation  of  our  minds,  which  were  toiled  after,  per- 
haps for  ages,  before  they  were  seized  and  rendered 
comprehensible!     How    many  subjects  are  there 


THE  PREMIUM.  285 

which  we  ourselves  have  grasped  at,  as  if  we  saw 
them  floating  in  an  atmosphere  just  above  us,  and 
found  the  arm  of  our  intellect  but  just  too  short  to 
reach  them  :  and  then  comes  a  happier  genius,  who, 
in  a  fortunate  moment,  and  from  some  vantage 
ground,  arrests  the  meteor  in  its  flight ;  and  grasping 
the  floating  phantom,  drags  it  from  the  skies  to  the 
earth  ;  condenses  that  which  was  but  an  impalpable 
coruscation  of  spirit ;  fetters  that  which  was  but  the 
lightning  glance  of  thought ;  and  having  so  mas- 
tered it,  bestows  it  as  a  perpetual  possession  and 
heritage  to  mankind.         MARavis  of  hasti>gs. 


SHAKSPEARE. 


Shakspeahe  was  a  man  of  universal  genius  ;  and 
from  a  period  soon  after  his  own  era  to  the  present 
day,  he  has  been  universally  idolized.  When  I 
come  to  his  honoured  name,  I  am  like  the  sick  man 
who  hung  up  his  crutches  at  the  shrine,  and  was 
obUged  to  confess  that  he  did  walk  better  than  be- 
fore. The  only  one  to  whom  I  can  at  all  compare 
him,  is  the  wonderful  Arabian  dervise,  who  dived  into 
the  body  of  each,  and  in  that  way  became  familiar 
with  the  thoughts  and  secrets  of  their  hearts.  He 
was  a  man  of  obscure  origin,  and  as  a  player,  limit- 
ed in  his  acquirements.  But  he  was  born  evidently 
with  a  universal  genius.  His  eyes  glanced  at  all 
the  varied  aspects  of  life,  and  his  fancy  portrayed 
with  equal  talents  the  king  on  the  throne,  and  the 
clown  who  cracks  his  chestnuts  at  a  Christmas  fire. 
Whatever  note  he  takes,  he  strikes  it  just  and  true, 
and  awakens  a  corresponding  chord  in  our  own  bo- 
som. SCOTT. 


806  THE    PHEMIUM. 

TO  IVTELLECTUAL  BEAUTV. 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  power, 

Floats,  though  unseen,  among  us. — 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance, 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance ; — 
Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, 
Like  memory  of  music  fled. 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 

Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  beauty, — 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state, 

This  dim  ^*ast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight,  not  forever, 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  momitain  river, 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown, 
Why  fear,  and  dream,  and  death,  and  birth. 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom ;  why  man  has  such  a  scope 

For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 

IS'o  voice  from  some  subluner  world  has  ever 

To  sage  or  poet  tliese  responses  given; 

Therefore,  the  name  of  Demon,  Ghost,  and 
Heaven, 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavour  ; 
Frail  spells,  whose  uttered  charm  might  not  avail  to 
sever 

From  all  wc  hear,  and  all  we  see. 

Doubt,  chance,  and  mutabihty. 

Thy  light  alone — 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and 

ruin. 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 


TUE  PREMIUM.  287 

Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead, 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth 
is  fed; 

I  was  not  heard ;  I  saw  them  not ; 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  Ufe,  at  that  sweet  time  when  birds  are  wooing ; 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming, 

Sudden  thy  shadow  fell  on  me ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  ray  hands  in  ecstasy  ! 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine ;  have  I  not  kept  the  vow  1 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even 
now 

I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 

Each  from  his  voiceless  grave  ;  they  have  in  visioned 
bowers 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight, 
Outwatch'd  with  me  the  envious  night ; 

They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow, 
Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  mom  is  past ;  there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  the  sky, 

Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  nor  seen, 

As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
Thus  let  thy  power,  wliich  like  the  truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth. 

Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 
Its  calm,  to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,  spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 

To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


888  Tat  PREMir^f. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  PLANTS 

The  Garden  of  Plants  dates  its  origin  as  far  back 
as  1640,  during  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.  In  1665, 
it  bore  the  title  of  Hortus  Regius,  and  exhibited 
a  catalogue  of  four  thousand  plants.  From  that 
period  it  made  but  slow  progress,  until  Louis  XV. 
placed  it  under  the  direction  of  Buflbn,  the  celebra- 
ted naturalist,  to  whose  anxious  care  and  indefati- 
gable exertions,  it  owes  its  present  extent  and  mag- 
nificence. It  is  now  under  the  immediate  patronage 
of  the  government,  and  superintended  by  twelve 
professors,  each  of  whom  regulates,  exclusively, 
whatever  appertains  to  the  department  of  science 
which  he  is  selected  to  teach.  This  institution 
comprises,  1st.  A  botanical  garden  and  numerous 
hot-houses  admirably  disposed,  and  stocked  with  the 
most  various  and  abundant  collection  of  plants  in 
the  universe.  There  is  scarcely  a  member  of  the 
vegetable  tribe  belonging  to  the  known  parts  of  the 
globe,  of  which  it  cannot  furnish  a  specimen.  2d. 
An  extensive  chemical  laboratory.  3d.  A  cabinet 
of  comparative  anatomy,  with  which  nothing  of  the 
kind  to  be  found  elsewhere  can  sustain  a  parallel. 
4th.  A  valuable  cabinet  of  preparations  in  anatomy 
and  natural  history.  5th.  A  large  library,  consisting 
principally  of  works  relating  to  natural  history,  and 
possessing  some  very  curious  drawings.  6th.  A  mu- 
seum of  natural  history,  confessedly  unequalled,  in 
point  of  variety  and  distribution.  7th.  A  menage- 
rie, well  stocked,  which  has  this  peculiarity,  that 
the  animals,  &c.,  are  distributed  in  various  parts  of 
the  garden,  in  appropriate  inclosures  and  habitations 
which,  being  embellished  with  great  taste  and  judg- 
ment, produce  a  very  striking  and  fanciful  effect. 
The  edifices  in  which  the  cabinets  are  deposited. 


THE  PKEMIUM.  Xb^ 

and  the  professors  lodged,  arc  convenient  and  spa- 
cious. A  beautiful  little  structure,  entitled  the  am- 
phitheatre, is  appropriated  to  the  delivery  of  the  lec- 
tures. 

During  the  summer  season,  public  and  gratuitous 
courses  of  lectures  are  given,  in  mineralogy,  geo- 
logy, chemistry,  botany,  ornithology,  osteology,  ico- 
nography, simple  and  comparative  anatomy,  &c. 
Among  the  professors  at  the  period  of  my  visit,  were, 
Hauy,  Jussieu,  Fourcroy,  Cuvier,  Lacepede,  and 
Portal,  names  of  the  highest  eminence  in  science. 
The  museum,  library,  &c.,  are  open  every  day  to 
students,  and  tw^ice  a  week  to  casual  visiters.  The 
latter,  however,  must  be  supplied  with  tickets  of  ad- 
mission, by  the  annual  director,  from  whom  they 
are  obtained  without  difficulty.  This  precaution 
answers  a  necessary  purpose  of  discrimination. 

The  garden  itself  is  open  to  all  persons,  without 
distinction.  The  remoteness  of  its  situation,  aloof 
from  the  bustle  and  throng  of  the  capital,  serves  to 
protect  it  from  the  incursion  of  the  rabble,  and  of 
the  world  of  fashion.  Its  walks  are,  therefore,  fre- 
quented chiefly  by  those  who  are  prompted,  either 
by  the  impulse  of  curiosity,  or  the  love  of  know- 
ledge. In  good  weather,  the  professors  of  botany 
give  their  peripatetic  lessons  to  a  numerous  train  of 
disciples,  without  fear  of  molestation  or  interruption 
from  idle  loiterers,  and  oftentimes  with  no  other  au- 
ditors or  spectators,  than  the  former.  The  most 
habitual  loungers  in  the  Garden  of  Plants,  as  well 
as  in  that  of  Luxemberg,  are  decayed  emigrants, 
and  other  persons  impoverished  by  the  revolution, 
who  find  a  cheap  lodging  in  the  suburbs,  and  dedi- 
cate most  of  their  time  to  solitary  exercise  or  medi- 
tation, in  these  retreats. 

This  institution  unites  all  that  the  imagination  of 
T 


290  THE  PREMIUM. 

a  pastoral  poet,  or  the  curiosity  of  a  naturalist  could 
demand.  It  combines  whatever  can  solace  the  sense, 
or  amuse  the  fancy,  or  gratify  a  scientific  inquirer. 
With  regard  to  the  animal  and  vegetable  king- 
doms, it  is  a  kind  of  microcosm.  The  vegetation 
of  every  clime,  including  the  loftiest  as  well  as  the 
most  beautiful  and  odoriferous,  is  offered  to  the  in- 
spection of  the  studious  and  inquisitive,  and  spread 
over  a  vast  surface,  embellished  by  all  that  art  can 
furnish  to  nature,  or  taste  yield  to  art.  The  trees 
and  plants  of  exotic  growth,  their  variegated  ver- 
dure, the  magnificent  avenues,  the  thick  groves  and 
silent  arbours,  the  diversified  and  fanciful  scenery 
produced  by  the  mounds  and  inclosurcs,  remind  you 
of  the  island  which  Johnson  allots  to  Seged,  and 
which  he  describes  as  cultivated  only  for  pleasure — 
as  "planted  with  every  flower  that  spreads  its  co- 
lours to  the  sun,  and  every  shrub  that  sheds  fragrance 
in  the  air."  In  one  part  of  the  botanical  garden, 
there  is  an  eminence  which  you  ascend  by  a  spiral 
path,  and  from  the  summit  of  which,  you  contem- 
plate one  of  the  most  noble  prospects  that  I  have 
ever  beheld.  PVom  the  pavilion  on  the  top,  you 
survey  at  your  leisure,  the  architectural  monuments 
of  the  capital,  the  Seine  in  some  part  of  its  course, 
the  irregular  hills  of  the  vicinity  covered  with  ver- 
dure, the  cultivated  meadows  which  spread  them- 
^  selves  along  the  banks  of  the  river ;  and  immediately 
below,  the  garden  itself,  in  all  its  variety  of  hues  and 
ymmetry  of  arrangement. 

When  I  have  been  seated  at  noon,  on  a  fine  day, 
in  the  month  of  August,  or  in  the  commencement 
of  May,  under  one  of  the  majestic  ash  of  the  garden 
of  plants,  with  this  Elysian  scene  before  me,  in  the 
midst  of  a  most  profound  silence,  and  of  a  solitude 
uiterrupted  only  by  the  occasional  appearance  of  the 


THE  PUKMIUM.  291 

professor  of  botany  and  his  pupils,  I  have  almost 
fancied  myself  among  the  groves  of  the  Athenian 
academy,  and  could  imagine  that  I  heard  the  lessons 
of  the  "  divine"  Plato.  Here,  as  well  as  in  the  spa- 
cious and  noble  walks  and  gardens  of  Oxford,  Avhicli 
are  so  admirably  calculated  for  the  exercise  both  of 
the  mind  and  body,  the  fancy  takes  wing,  and  rea- 
dily transports  the  student  of  antiquity,  to  those 
venerable  seats  of  knowledge,  where  the  sublime 
philosophy  of  the  Greeks  was  taught,  and  "  the 
masters  of  human  reason"  displayed  their  incompa- 
rable eloquence : — 

"  The  ^rpcn  retreats 
Of  Acaclpmu?,  and  the  tliymy  vale. 
Where  oft  enclmnted  with  Socratic  sounds, 
Dyssiis  pure  devolved  his  tuneful  stream 
In  gentle  niurniurs." 

I  could,  with  my  fancy  roused  by  the  prospect  be* 
fore  me,  and  heated  by  the  recollection  of  the  glory 
and  the  benetit  which  the  human  race  has  derived 
from  the  school  of  Athens,  anticipate  the  day,  when 
similar  institutions  would  flourish  in  our  own  coun- 
try, and,  like  them,  "  pour  forth  a  colony"  of  pro- 
found statesmen,  legislators,  and  philosophers,  who 
might  shed  a  permanent  radiance  over  the  American 
name,  and  open  new  sources  of  instruction  and 
happiness,  not  only  to  us,  but  to  all  mankind.  I 
reflected  upon  the  aptitude  of  a  popular  state  for  the 
most  noble  pursuits  of  active  and  speculative  life  : 
upon  the  elective  aflTection,  which  the  studies  of 
philosophy  and  eloquence  may  be  said  to  entertain 
for  a  political  system  that  encourages  an  unlimited 
freedom  of  inquiry  into  eveiy  branch  of  human 
knowledge ;  which  asserts  the  exclusive  dominion 
of  just  and  etjual  laws  ;  which  lays  open  the  offices 
of  public  trust  and  honour  to  all  clasbcs  of  citizens  ; 


2D2  THE    PnEMIUM. 

under  which  the  oratorical  art  is  a  powerful  engine 
both  of  patriotism  and  ambition,  and  the  spirit  of 
enterprise  the  main  spring  of  efforts  and  improve- 
ments, that  know  no  bounds  but  those  which  Provi- 
dence has  assigned  to  the  human  faculties  eitlier  of 
moral  happiness  or  of  intellectual  perfection.  I  re- 
flected upon  the  height  to  which  we  are  already 
raised  by  the  labours  and  discoveries  of  the  nations 
of  the  other  hemisphere ;  upon  the  singular  and  pe- 
culiar fitness  of  our  federative  system  for  the  excite- 
ment of  that  generous  and  stimulating  emulation, 
which  conduces  so  efficaciously  to  the  complete  de- 
velopement  and  culture  of  the  human  powers.  I 
called  to  mind  what  Gibbon  has  said  of  the  states 
of  Greece,  the  remembrance  of  whose  institutions 
had  awakened  the  glowing  expectations  in  which 
my  imagination  rioted,  and  was  prompted  to  con- 
gratulate myself,  not  only  on  the  striking  resem- 
blance between  our  position  and  the  picture  he 
draws,  but  on  the  obvious  advantage  we  enjoy  in 
the  comparison.  *'  The  cities  of  ancient  Greece," 
says  the  historian,  "  were  cast  in  the  happy  mixture 
of  union  and  independence,  which  is  repeated  on  a 
larger  scale,  but  in  a  looser  form,  by  the  nations  of 
modern  Europe ;  the  union  of  language,  rehgion, 
and  manne^-s,  which  renders  them  the  spectators  and 
judges  of  each  other's  merit ;  the  independence  of 
government  and  interest,  which  asserts  their  sepa- 
rate freedom,  and  excites  them  to  strive  for  pre-emi- 
nence in  the  career  of  glory."  walsh. 


THE    PREMIUM.  293 


CHARACTER  OF  SOPHOCLES. 

The  birth-year  of  Sophocles,  was  nearly  at  an 
equal  distance  between  that  of  his  predecessor  and 
of  Euripides,  so  that  he  was  about  half  a  hfetime 
from  each  :  in  this  all  the  accounts  are  found  to  co- 
incide. He  was,  however,  during  the  greatest  part 
of  his  life  the  contemporary  of  both.  He  frequently 
contended  for  the  tragic  garland  with  ^'Eschylus, 
and  he  outlived  Euripides,  who  himself  attained  a 
good  age.  If  I  may  speak  in  the  spirit  of  the  ancient 
religion,  it  seems  that  a  beneficent  Providence  wished. 
to  evince  to  the  human  race,  in  the  instance  of  this 
individual,  the  dignity  and  fehcity  of  their  lot,  as  he 
was  endowed  with  every  divine  gift,  with  all  that 
can  adorn  and  elevate  the  mind  and  the  heart,  and 
crowned  with  every  blessing  imaginable  in  this  life. 
Descended  from  rich  and  honoured  parents,  and 
born  a  free  citizen  of  the  most  cultivated  state  of 
Greece,  such  were  the  advantages  with  which  he 
entered  the  world.  Beauty  of  body  and  of  soul, 
and  the  uninterrupted  enjoyment  of  both  in  the  ut- 
most perfection,  till  the  extreme  limits  of  human 
existence ;  an  education  the  most  extensive,  yet 
select,  in  gymnastics  and  music,  the  former  so  im- 
portant in  the  developement  of  the  bodily  powers, 
and  the  latter  in  the  communication  of  harmony  ; 
the  sweet  blossom  of  youth,  and  the  ripe  fruit  of  age ; 
the  possession  and  continued  enjoyment  of  poetry 
and  art,  and  the  exercise  of  serene  wisdom  ;  love 
and  respect  among  his  fellow-citizens,  fame  in  other 
countries,  and  the  countenance  and  favour  of  the 
gods :  these  are  the  general  features  of  the  life  of 
this  pious  and  virtuous  poet.  It  would  seem  as  if 
the  gods,  in  return  for  his  dedicating  himself  at  an 
early  age  to  Bacchus,  as  the  giver  of  all  joy,  and 


294  THE  PTinMirx. 

the  author  of  the  cultivation  of  the  hujuan  race,  bv 
the  representation  of  tragical  dramasfor  his  festivals, 
had  wished  to  confer  immortality  on  him,  so  long 
did  tlaey  delay  the  hour  of  his  death ;  but  as  this 
was  impossible,  they  extinguished  his  life  at  least 
as  gently  a^  possible,  that  he  might  imperceptibly 
change  one  immortality  for  another,  the  long  du.a- 
ration  of  his  earthly  existence  for  an  imperishable 
name.  Wlien  a  youth  of  sixteen,  he  was  selected, 
on  account  of  his  beauty,  to  play  on  the  lyre,  and 
to  dance  in  the  Greek,  manner  before  the  chorus  of 
youths  who.  afier  the  battle  of  Salamis  in  which 
.Eschylus  fought,  and  v.hich  he  has  so  nobly  de- 
scribed) executed  the  Paean  round  the  trophy  erected 
on  that  occasion ;  so  that  the  fairest  developement 
of  his  youtlifal  beauty  coincided  with  the  moment 
when  the  Athenian  people  had  attained  the  epoch 
of  their  highest  glory.  He  held  the  rank  of  gene- 
ral along  with  Pericles  and  Thucydides,  and,  when 
arrived  at  a  more  advanced  age,  the  priesthood  of  a 
native  hero.  In  his  twenty-titth  year  he  beg-an  to 
represent  tragedies ;  twenty  times  he  was  victorious  ; 
he  often  gained  the  second  place,  and  he  never  was 
ranked  in  the  third.  In  his  career  he  proceeded  with 
increasing  success  till  he  exceeded  his  ninetieth 
year  ;  and  some  of  his  greatest  works  were  even  the 
fruit  of  a  still  later  period.  There  is  a  story  of  an 
accusation  brought  against  him  by  one  or  more  of 
his  elder  sons,  of  having  become  childish  from  age, 
because  he  was  too  fond  of  a  grandchild  by.  a  second 
wife,  and  of  being  no  longer  in  a  condition  to  ma- 
nage his  own  affairs.  In  his  defence  he  merely  read 
to  his  judges  hisCEdipus  in  Colonos,  which  he  had 
then  composed  in  honour  of  Colonos.  his  birth-place, 
and  the  astonished  judges,  without  farther  consultii- 
tion,  conducted  him  m  triumph  to  liis  house.    If  it  be 


THE  phemium.  295 

true  that  the  second  (Edipus  was  written  at  so  late 
an  age,  as  from  its  mature  serenity  and  total  freedom 
from  the  impetuosity  and  violence  of  youth  we  have 
good  reason  to  conclude  that  it  actually  was,  it  af- 
fords us  at  once  a  pleasing  picture  of  the  delight  and 
reverence  which  attended  his  concluding  years.  Al- 
though the  various  accounts  of  his  death  appear  fa- 
bulous, they  all  coincide  in  this,  that  he  departed 
without  a  struggle,  while  employed  in  his  art,  or 
something  connected  with  it,  and  that,  like  an  old 
swan  of  Apollo,  he  breathed  out  his  life  in  song.  I 
consider  also,  the  story  of  the  Lacedemonian  gene- 
ral who  had  fortified  the  burying-ground  of  his  fa- 
thers, and  who,  twice  exhorted  by  Bacchus  in  a 
vision  to  allow  Sophocles  to  be  there  interred,  des- 
patched a  herald  to  the  Athenians  on  the  subject, 
with  a  numberof  other  circumstances,  as  the  strong- 
est possible  proof  of  the  established  reverence  in 
which  his  name  was  .held.  In  caUing  him  virtuous 
and  pious,  I  spoke  in  the  true  sense  of  the  words ; 
for  although  his  works  breathe  the  real  character  of 
ancient  grandeur,  sweetness,  and  simplicity,  of  all 
the  Grecian  poets  he  is  also  the  individual  whose 
feelings  bear  the  strongest  affinity  to  the  spirit  of 
our  religion.  schlegel. 


MODERN  GREECE. 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 

Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 

The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 

(Before  decay's  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  tiie  liiie  where  beauty  lingers,) 


296  THE  PREMIUM. 

And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that  's  there, 
The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 
And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill  changeless  brow, 
Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
As  if  to  him  it  would  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon ; 
Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone, 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power ; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  revealed  ! 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore ; 
'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more ! 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 
We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 
Her's  is  the  loveUness  in  death. 
That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath 
But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom. 
That  line  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  feeling  past  away ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherished 
earth  !  btron. 


REMARKS  ON  SHAKSPEARE. 

To  me  Shakspeare  appears  a  profound  artist,  and 
not  a  blind  and  wildly  luxuriant  genius.    I  consider, 


THE  PREMIUM.  297 

generally  speaking,  all  that  has  been  said  on  this 
subject  as  a  mere  fabulous  story,  a  blind  and  ex- 
travagant error.  In  other  arts  the  assertion  refutes 
itself;  for  in  them  acquired  knowledge  is  an  indis- 
pensable condition  before  any  thing  can  be  perform- 
ed. But  even  in  such  poets,  as  are  usually  given 
out  for  careless  pupils  of  nature,  without  any  art 
or  school  discipline,  I  have  always  found,  on  a  near- 
er consideration,  when  they  have  really  produced 
works  of  excellence,  a  distinguished  cultivation  of 
tire  mental  powers,  practice  in  art,  and  views  wor- 
thy in  themselves  and  maturely  considered.  This 
applies  to  Homer  as  well  as  Dante.  The  activity 
of  genius  is,  it  is  true,  natural  to  it,  and  in  a  ceitain 
sense  unconscious ;  and  consequently  the  person 
who  possesses  it  is  not  always  at  the  moment  able 
to  render  an  account  of  the  course  which  he  may 
have  pursued ;  but  it  by  no  means  follows  that  the 
thinking  power  had  not  a  great  share  in  it.  It  is 
from  the  very  rapidity  and  certainty  of  the  mental 
[)rocess,  from  the  utmost  clearness  of  understanding, 
that  thinking  in  a  poet  is  not  perceived  as  some- 
thing abstracted,  does  not  wear  the  appearance  of 
meditation  (after  thought).  That  idea  of  poetical 
inspiration,  which  many  lyrical  poets  have  brought 
into  circulation,  as  if  they  were  not  in  their  senses, 
and  hke  Pythia,  when  possessed  by  the  diviuity, 
delivered  oracles  unintelligible  to  themselves  (a 
mere  lyrical  invention),  is  least  of  all  applicable  to 
dramatic  composition,  one  of  the  productions  of  the 
human  mind  which  requires  the  greatest  exercise 
of  thought.  It  is  admitted  that  Shakspcare  has  re- 
llectcd,  and  deeply  reflected,  on  character  and  pas- 
sion, on  the  progress  of  events  and  human  destinies, 
on  the  human  constitution,  on  all  the  things  and 
relations  of  the  world ;  this  is  an  admission  which 


298  THE  P7iE:^riu>r. 

must  be  maJe,  for  one  alone  of  thousands  of  his 
maxims  would  be  a  sufficient  refutation  of  whoever 
should  attempt  to  deny  it.  So  that  it  was  only  then 
respecting  the  structure  of  his  own  pieces  that  he 
had  no  thought  to  spare  1  This  he  left  to  the  do- 
minion of  chance,  which  blew  together  the  atoms 
of  Epicurus  ]  But  supposing  that  he  had,  without 
the  higher  ambition  of  acquiring  the  approbation  of 
judicious  critics  and  posterity,  without  the  love  of 
art  which  aims  at  self-satisfaction  in  a  perfect  work, 
merely  laboured  to  please  the  unlettered  crowd; 
this  very  object  alone  and  the  theatrical  effect,  would 
have  led  him  to  bestow  attention  to  the  conduct  of 
his  pieces.  For  does  not  the  impression  of  a  drama 
depend  in  an  especial  manner  on  the  relation  of  the 
parts  to  each  other  ?  And  however  beautiful  a  scene 
may  be  in  itself,  will  it  not  be  at  once  reprobated  by 
spectators  merely  possessed  of  plain  sense  who  give 
themselves  up  to  nature,  whenever  it  is  at  variance 
with  what  they  are  led  to  expect  at  that  particular 
place,  and  destroys  the  interest  which  they  have  al- 
ready begun  to  take  1  The  comic  intermixtures  may 
he  considered  as  a  sort  of  interlude,  for  the  purpose 
of  refreshing  the  spectators  after  the  straining  of 
their  minds  in  following  the  more  serious  parts,  if  no 
better  purpose  can  be  found  for  them  ;  but  in  the  jjro* 
gress  of  the  main  action,  in  the  concatenation  of  the 
events,  the  poet  must,  if  possible,  display  even  more 
superiority  of  understanding  than  in  the  composi- 
tion of  individual  character  and  situations,  otherwise 
he  would  be  like  the  conductor  of  a  puppet-show 
who  has  confused  the  wire,  so  that  the  puppets, 
from  their  mechanism,  undergo  quite  different  move- 
ments from  those  which  he  actually  intended. 

The  English  critics  are  unanimous  in  their  praise 
of  the  truth  and  uniform  consistency  of  his  charac- 


THE  PREMIUM.  299 

tors,  of  his  heart-rending  pathos,  and  his  comic  wit- 
Moreover,  they  extol  the  beauty  and  subhraity  of 
his  separate  descriptions,  images,  and  expressions. 
This  last  is  the  most  superficial  and  cheap  mode  of 
criticising  works  of  art.  Johnson  compares  him^ 
who  should  endeavour  to  recommend  this  poet  by 
passages  unconnectcdly  torn  from  his  works,  to  the 
pedant  in  Hierocles,  who  exhibited  a  brick  as  a  sam- 
ple of  his  house.  And  yet  he  himself  speaks  so 
little,  and  so  very  unsatisfactorily,  of  the  pieces  con- 
sidered as  a  whole !  Let  any  man,  for  instance, 
bring  together  the  short  characters  which  he  gives  at 
the  close  of  each  play,  and  see  if  the  aggregate  will 
amount  to  that  sum  of  admiration  which  he  himself, 
at  his  outset,  has  stated  as  the  correct  standard  for 
the  appreciation  of  the  poet.  It  was,  generally 
speaking,  the  prevaiHng  tendency  of  the  time  which 
preceded  our  own;  a  tendency  disfjlayed  also  in 
physical  science,  to  consider  wdiat  is  possessed  of 
life  as  a  mere  accumulation  of  dead  parts,  to  separate 
what  exists  only  in  connexion  and  cannot  otherwise 
be  conceived,  instead  of  penetrating  to  the  central 
point  and  viewing  all  the  parts  as  so  many  irradia- 
tions from  it.  Hence  nothing  is  so  rare  as  a  critic 
who  can  elevate  iiimself  to  the  contemplation  of  an 
extensive  work  of  art.  Shakspeare's  com.positions, 
from  the  very  depth  of  purpose  displayed  in  them, 
have  been  exposed  to  the  misfortune  of  being  mis- 
understood. Besides,  this  prosaical  species  of  criti- 
cism applies  always  the  poetical  form  to  the  details 
of  execution  ;  but  in  so  far  as  the  plan  of  the  piece 
is  concerned,  it  never  looks  for  more  than  the  logi» 
cal  connexion  of  causes  and  effects,  or  some  partial 
and  trivial  moral  by  way  of  application;  and  all 
that  cannot  be  reconciled  to  this  is  declared  a  super- 
fluous, or  even  a  detrimental,  addition.     On  these 


300  THE  FBEMIUM. 

principles  we  must  in  like  manner  strike  out  most  of 
the  cliHjral  songs  of  the  Greek  tragedies,  which  also 
contribute  nothing  to  the  developement  of  the  action, 
but  are  merely  an  harmonious  echo  of  the  impres- 
sions aimed  at  by  the  poet.  In  this  they  altogether 
mistake  the  rights  of  poetry  and  the  nature  of  the 
romantic  drama,  wliich,  for  the  very  reason  that  it  Ls 
and  ought  to  be  picturesque,  requires  richer  accom- 
paniments and  contrasts  for  its  main  groups.  In  all 
art  and  poetry,  but  more  especially  in  the  romantic, 
the  fancy  lays  claims  to  be  considered  as  an  inde- 
pendent mental  power  governed  according  to  its 
own  laws. 

Shakspeare's  knowledge  of  mankind  has  become 
proverbial ;  in  this  his  superiority  is  so  great,  that 
he  has  justly  been  called  the  master  of  the  human 
heart.  A  readiness  in  remarking  even  the  nicer 
involuntary  demonstrations  of  the  mind,  and  ex- 
pressing with  certainty  and  meaning  these  signs 
acquired  from  experience  and  reflection,  constitutes 
the  observer  of  men;  acuteness  in  drawing  stUl 
farther  conclusions  from  them,  and  in  arranging 
the  separate  observations  according  to  grounds  of 
probability  in  a  connected  manner,  may  be  said  to 
be  knowing  men.  The  distinguishing  property 
of  the  dramatic  poet  who  is  great  in  characteriza- 
tion is  something  altogether  different  from  this, 
which  either,  take  it  which  way  we  will,  includes  in 
it  this  readiness,  and  this  acuteness,  or  dispenses 
with  both.  It  is  the  capabiht}'  of  transporting  him- 
self so  completely  into  every  situation,  even  the 
most  unusual,  that  he  is  enabled,  as  plenipotentiary 
of  the  whole  human  race,  without  particular  instruc- 
tions for  each  separate  case,  to  act  and  speak  in  the 
name  of  every  individual.  It  is  the  power  of  endow- 
ing the  creatures  of  his  imagination  with  such  self- 


THE  PREHirM:.  301 

existent  energy,  that  they  afterwards  act  in  each 
conjuncture  according  to  general  laws  of  nature : 
the  poet,  in  his  dreams,  institutes  as  it  were  experi- 
ments which  are  received  with  as  much  authority 
as  if  they  had  been  made  on  real  objects.  The  in- 
conceivable in  this,  and  what  never  can  be  learned, 
is,  that  the  characters  appear  neither  to  do  nor  to 
say  any  thing  on  account  of  the  spectator  :  and  yet 
that  the  poet,  by  means  of  the  exhibition  itself  with- 
out any  subsidiary  explanation,  communicates  the 
gift  of  looking  into  the  inmost  recesses  of  their 
minds.  Hence  Goethe  has  ingeniously  compared 
Shakspeare's  characters  to  watches  with  chrystalline 
plates  and  cases,  which,  while  they  point  out  the 
hours  as  correctly  as  other  watches,  enable  us  at  the 
same  time  to  perceive  the  inv/ard  springs  whereby 
all  this  is  accomplished. 

Nothing,  however,  is  more  foreign  to  Shakspeare, 
than  a  certain  dissecting  mode  of  composition,  which 
laboriously  enumerates  to  us  all  the  motives  by 
which  a  man  is  determined  to  act  in  this  or  that 
particular  manner.  This  way  of  accounting  for  mo- 
tives, the  rage  of  many  of  the  modem  historians, 
might  be  carried  at  length  to  an  extent  which  would 
abohsh  every  thing  like  individuality,  and  resolve  all 
character  into  nothing  but  the  effect  of  foreign  or 
external  mfluences,  while  we  know  that  it  frequently 
announces  itself  in  the  most  decided  manner  in  the 
earliest  infancy.  After  all,  a  man  acts  so  because  he 
is  so.  And  how  each  man  is  constituted,  Shak- 
speare reveals  to  us  in  the  most  immediate  manner : 
he  demands  and  obtEiins  our  belief,  even  for  what  is 
singular,  anvl  deviates  from  the  ordinary  course  of 
nature.  Never  perhaps  was  there  so  comprehensive 
a  talent  for  characterization  as  Shakspeare.  It  not 
only  grasps  the  diversities  of  rank,  sex,  and  age, 


302  THE  PREMIUM. 

down  to  the  dawning  of  infancy ;  not  only  do  the 
Idng  and  the  beggar,  the  hero  and  the  pickpocket, 
the  sage  and  the  idiot,  speak  and  act  with  equal 
truth ;  not  only  does  he  transport  himself  to  distant 
ages  and  foreign  nations,  and  pourtray  in  the  most 
accurate  manner,  with  only  a  few  apparent  viola- 
tions of  costume,  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Romans, 
of  the  French  in  their  wars  with  the  English,  of  the 
English  themselves  during  a  great  part  of  their  his- 
tory, of  the  Southern  Europeans  (in  the  serious 
part  of  many  comedies),  the  cultivated  society  of 
tliat  time,  and  the  former  rude  and  barbarous  state 
of  the  North ;  his  human  characters  have  not  only 
such  depth  and  precision  that  they  cannot  be  ar- 
ranged under  classes,  and  are  inexhaustible  even  in 
conception:  no,  this  Prometheus  not  merely  forms 
men,  he  opens  the  gates  of  the  magical  world  of 
spirits,  calls  up  the  midnight  ghosts,  exhibits  before 
us  his  witches  amidst  their  unhallowed  mysteries, 
peoples  the  air  with  sportive  fairies  and  sylphs  :  and 
the>e  beings  existing  only  in  imagination  possess 
such  truth  and  consistency,  that  even  when  deform- 
ed monsters  Uke  Cahban,  he  extorts  the  assenting 
conviction,  that  if  there  should  be  such  beings  they 
would  so  conduct  themselves.  In  a  word,  as  he 
carries  with  him  the  most  fruitful  and  daring  fancy 
into  the  kingdom  of  nature,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
carries  nature  into  the  regions  of  fancy,  lying  be- 
yond the  confines  of  reahty.  We  are  lost  in  asto- 
nishment at  seeing  the  extraordinary,  the  wonderful, 
and  the  uiiheard  of,  in  such  intimate  nearness. 

SCHL£S£L. 


THE  PREMIUM.  303 

THE  SABBATH. 

How  stiU  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day  ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  lal^our,  hush'd 
The  ploughboy's  whistle,  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
Tlie  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  yester  mom  bloomed  waving  in  the  breeze 
The  faintest  sounds  attract  the  ear, — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew, 
The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  seems  thron'd  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  lea-s. 
The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale, 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heav'n-tun'd  song;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-sunk  glen ; 
While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'er  mounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  intervals, 
The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 

With   dove-like  wings   Peace  o'er    yon  village 
broods  : 
The  dizzing  mill-wheel  rests ;  the  anvil's  din 
Has  ceas'd  ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness, 
Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 
Her  deadliest  foe  ; — the  toil-worn  horse  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large. 
And,  as  his  stiff  unwielded  bulk  he  rolls,  \ 

His  iron-arm'd  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray 

But,  chiefly,  Man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 
Hail,  Sabbatu!    thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day. 
On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is  doom'd 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely,  the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board, — screen'd  from  the  winter's 
cold, 


304  THE  JIlEMirX. 

And  summer's  heat,  by  neighbouring  hedge  or  tree; 

But  on  this  day,  embosom'd  in  his  home, 

He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves; 

With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the  heartfelt  joy 

Of  giving  thanks  to  God, — not  thanks  of  form, 

A  word  and  a  grimace,  but  reverently, 

With  covered  face  and  upward  earnest  eye. 

Hail,  Sabbath  !   thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
1'he  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's  smoke, 
As  wandering  slowly  up  the  rivers  bank. 
He  meditates  on  Him  whose  power  he  marks 
In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough, 
And  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  the  roots ;  and  while  he  thus  siuveys 
With  elevated  joy  each  rural  charm, 
He  hopes,  (yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope,) 
That  heaven  may  be  one  Sabbath  without  end. 

But  now  his  steps  a  welcome  sound  recalls : 
Solemn,  the  knell  from  yonder  ancient  pile 
Fills  all  the  air,  inspiring  joyful  awe ; 
The    throng    moves    slowly    o'er   the    tomb-pav'd 

ground : 
The  aged  man,  the  bowed  down,  the  blind, 
]  jcd  by  the  thoughtless  boy,  and  he  who  breathes 
With  pain,  and   eyes  the  new-made  grave,  well- 

pleas'd ; 
These,  mingled  with  the  young,  the  gay,  approach 
The  house  of  God :  these,  spite  of  all  their  ills, 
A  glow  of  gladness  prove:  with  silent  praise 
They  enter  in :  a  placid  stillness  reigns  ; 
Until  the  man  of  God,  worthy  the  name, 
Opens  the  book,  and,  with  impressive  voice, 
The  weekly  portion  reads.  ghauame. 


THE  PREMIUM.  305 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 


Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine !    Life  went  a  maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young  ! 
When  I  was  young  !    ah,  woeful  when  ! 
Ah  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then  ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body,  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  air}''  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 
How  hghtly  then  it  flashed  along  ! 
Like  those  trim  skitls,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide  ; 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar. 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  youth  and  I  lived  in  't  together  ! 
Flowers  are  lovely,  Love  is  flower-like. 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree, — 
O  the  joys,  that  came  dov/n  shower-like. 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 
Ere  I  was  old !    ah  mournful  ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth  's  no  longer  here ! 

0  Youth !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet 
'Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  Vfcxe  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit ; 

It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  tolled  ; 
And  thou  wert  aye,  a  masker  bold — 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ] 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size ; 

U 


306  THE  PREMIUM. 

But  spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes ! 
Life  is  but  Thought !  so  think  I  will, 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still ! 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


MARCO  BOZZARIS. 


At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour, 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent 

Should  tremble  at  his  power. 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring  ; 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne, — a  king  ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Plataea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires,  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke — 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
*'  To  arms  !  they  come  !  the  Greek !  the  Greek  !'* 


THE  piie:miu:ji.  307 

He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  death-shots  faUing  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 
"  Strike  !  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike  !  for  your  altars  and  your  fires : 
Strike  !  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires; 

God — and  your  native  land  !" 

They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain  ; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won  ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose. 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form. 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm  ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine — 
And  thou  art  terrible  :  the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 


308  THE  PREMLIUM 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  Uke  a  prophet's  word  ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Bozzaris,  with  the  storied  brave, 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave 

Even  in  her  ovm  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's — 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die.  halleck. 


BATTLE  OF  WATERLOO. 


There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivah-y,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ; 
But  hush  !  hark  ! — a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 
knell! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  1 — No ;  'twas  but  the  wind. 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street : 

On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfin'd ; 

No  sleep  till  mom,  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet — 

But,  hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more. 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat. 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 

^irm  !  arm  !  it  is — it  is — the  canno7i'&  opening  roar ! 


THE  PREMIUuM.  309 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  trembhngs  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  o\\ti  loveliness : 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
"Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated — who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
8ince  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could 
rise  ] 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  ;  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war, 
And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering  with  white  lips — "  'I'he  foe !   They 

come!  they  come !" 
And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unretumLng  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass. 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe. 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 

low. 
Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  Ufe, 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudly  gay. 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  mom,  the  marshalhng  in  arms, — the  day. 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 


310  THE  PRKMICJr. 

The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent. 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider    and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial 
blent!  byhon. 


B     000  003  193     0 


